


PHANTOM

by VampiricVampire



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Complete, First Love, Gallavich, Good, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich - Freeform, Long, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Ian, POV Mickey, POV Multiple, Pain, Police, Post Season 7, Sad and Happy, Sex, Shameless, Slightly Non-Linear, Sweet, Triggers, Violence, auditory hallucinations, theartofdeathorfakingonesdeathwinkwink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 134,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9784007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampiricVampire/pseuds/VampiricVampire
Summary: Sometimes death is the end. Sometimes death rips away life from flesh and bones and leaves phantoms of the past and tendrils of memory to settle the Earth. Though there are a few instances where it keep things together, where at the time of death, things thought impossible suddenly are made with tangible touch and forged into reality. And though it does not stop the harshness of crime, or the will some have to hurt others, or the genetic misfortune of being born a Milkovich or Gallagher, it can rectify certain obstacles that seemed irrevocable. Sometimes death isn't the end, sometimes it's the beginning.---After Ian receives some painful news from a voice he hasn't heard in over a year, he begins a downward spiral that only Mickey could rectify. If only he were there to do so...





	1. IAN

"What was he in for again?” Trevor asked. Ian examined the popcorn ceiling and ran his fingers along the valley of his stomach, the comforter was thickly threaded against his back. His boyfriend hadn’t neglected his right to ask questions about Mickey, despite it being three months  since Ian had said his bittersweet goodbye, and wanted more than anything to forget about it. Trevor was a pesky termite, digging through the walls of things relentlessly and Ian had no way of exterminating him. He’d told him sorry more times than he could count, he’d told him he would’ve understood if he’d said “fuck off and fall off the face of the earth.” Somehow Trevor kept his hope and faith that things could still work out between them. Hell, if Ian knew how, and hell if he knew why he was so recently inclined to ask about his escaped convict boyfriend, stuck somewhere past the Rio Grande, a beer in one hand, and his own dick in the other.

            “He tried to kill my half sister.” Ian answered quickly and sat up, stretching the muscles in his back as he moved.“Of course that was _after_ she got me and my brother sent to jail, shot Frank, plus a bunch of other shit, but—that’s all in the past.” The smile Trevor gave was so blatantly hard, all happiness hid behind his effort to appear content. “Why do you keep asking about Mickey?” If ever he was going to confront it, he needed to now, before his impatience meddled with his kindness.

            “Well, ya know, any guy someone’s willing to go on the run with must be pretty interesting.” Trevor ran fingers through thick brown curls and Ian blanched. _What the hell am I supposed to say to that?_ “Sorry, I just wonder.”

            “It’s fine.”  Ian’s voice became soft and he scratched a pink elbow, picking up his phone to check the time. He hated that midday sex had turned into bitter knacks at one another, and came up with a pathetic reason to leave. A sudden and intense desire to his own space swelled inside his gut, and hurried his voice. “I’ve gotta get home, got work tomorrow.”

            Ian slid on his boxers and went to the bathroom to piss, dressing himself quickly. Trevor stood in the doorway when he returned to the bedroom. “I could take you home.” He offered. Ian nodded, pulling thick boots onto his feet. He tied them loosely and pulled on a light jacket. Spring was creeping up on them and he’d been freed from the thickness of his winter coat, among other things _._ Winter had brought him a surplus of endings, he’d felt the need to almost rewind himself emotionally, and the season changing was the button with the double arrow, pointing left.

            “Yeah, okay.” Trevor dressed quicker than Ian and Ian bit back the awkwardness that was biting at both of them. There was a thickness to the atmosphere, that felt slimy and sticky, and Ian wanted only to get out of it as soon as he could.

            “I’m sorry I keep bringing it up, it’s just, I keep thinking about it, guess I’m a little more insecure than I thought I was.” Ian winced. His heart dropped to his stomach and he rested his hand on Trev’s cheek. _Can I actually be with someone without hurting them?_ Ian wondered, ignoring the little ache of guilt in his belly. The only person he hadn’t was Caleb, and he was too much of an asshole to hurt. Ian only broke the hearts of those that didn’t deserve it. _Gallagher’s charm,_ he could call it if he wanted to slap on a label.

            “Stop, okay? I was surprised you even wanted shit to do with me.” Trevor nodded meekly and Ian pecked his lips, “let’s go,” holding his hand as they left the apartment, he smiled at him with fixed dream boy eyes.

 

Gallagher’s charm did not disappoint in its most recent absurdity either. Ian, numb to most of his family’s madness hadn’t noticed Frank standing on the porch roof immediately. Perched in his daily stupor, spread out like he was about to take off, he wore nothing but rough jeans and mismatched socks. A half empty beer bottle was in one of his hands, and he looked upon the Earth as though he was the second coming of Christ. Trevor tilted his head at the sight, deciding to speak while Ian fished his pockets for the skinny lanyard he kept his key on.

            “Um, is it a normal thing for your father to stand on the roof?” Trevor rubbed the back of his neck and Ian swore under his breath before he even turned to look. He rolled his eyes when he did.

            “If you fall that’s on you Frank,” Ian remarked. Frank made an ugly goblin face when he cried, and Ian felt sore from the awful sight.

            “Maybe I will! And you ingrates will all be sorry when I’m gone!” He shouted down. Lip slammed the front door behind him as Frank spoke, drowning out some of his nonsensical blabber. The usual cigarette hung in the corner of his mouth and he lit it. Looking at Trevor and Ian, he turned around to face what they were staring at, taking a long drag upon clear sight.

            “Get down Frank, none of us have the energy to take your body to the morgue today.” Lip sucked on his cigarette again and shook his head, turning away. “I’ve gotta meeting I don’t wanna be late for, so I’ll leave this one to you guys.” Lip left and Ian shook his head. _Not like there’s much left to do._ They took the concave wooden steps up to the front door, and Frank came crashing down, dangling off the edge, and then landing on his own ass, Ian had only wished he’d still been in range to see him slip. He grumbled and groaned on the ground, by a miracle, the dark beer bottle hadn’t busted in his face, though a few bones may have not been salvaged all the same.

            “If you’re trying to kill yourself, better find somewhere to jump off that’s more than ten feet.” Ian opened the door, hesitating at Frank’s mumbles.

            “None of you know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” Ian pursed his lips at the remark. It irritated him that some of the things Frank said actually resonated with him. He closed the door gentler than Lip had, any more damage would rip the thing off its hinges. When they were inside Trevor asked if he could get some Motrin, to which Ian complied, kissing him goodbye, he shut the door, cursing at the sound of loud banging on the front of it.

            “Don’t care if you broke your skull Frank, you’re not coming inside.” Ian hollered, about to lock it and relieve himself the invasion when he heard a Russian swear and thickly accented English.

            “Open up, orange boy.” Ian slowly rewound the lock and Svetlana gave a wan smile, small and without much happiness. “You’re taller now.” She observed, letting herself in. She stayed by the door, Yevgeny on her hip, though he was old enough to toddle through the house on his own by now.

            “Long time, no see—what are you doing here?” Ian asked, his brow in knots. Judging by the way she was swallowing, she was holding back a thicket of emotion. “You okay?” She gave a thin look and spoke desperately. Her hair was shorter.

            “They report fraud and call DHS months ago—”

           “Kev and V?” Ian interrupted, she continued as though he hadn’t said anything.

           “—they take back Alibi and kick me out. I stop by Milkovich house twice, and no answer. I need place to stay until deportation in next couple months.” Ian eyed the room as though the right words were somewhere scattered around the house. His face rouged. It was more than bitchy she’d taken the bar, but he didn’t think they’d have her deported. As glad he was to hear they had it back, seeing Svetlana, near tears, holding her two year old son, his conscious begged him only to be a little sympathetic.

            “I don’t know if Fiona would like you staying here, plus with Yevgeny and everything—is he going with you?” She nodded passionately, eyes lit and dedicated.

            “They take everything away, but they do not take child too. If I had better place to go, I go there first.” Ian was torn between hugging her and telling her to fuck off. Though when Fiona stormed in, opening the door fast and unannounced, the look she gave Svetlana was less than welcoming. She shoved past both of them, carrying a large black tote from the grocery store, and setting the bundle on the kitchen counter.

            “The fuck’s she doin’ here?” His brunette sister spat, unloading the bag. Ian crossed his arms, and kept them close to his chest as he walked into the kitchen, speaking lowly so that Svet couldn’t hear.

            “They’re making her leave the country.” He testified in a whisper, glancing over his shoulder to see Svetlana hanging on their conversation.

            “Not our problem,” Fiona’s words overlapped Ian’s and she straightened her mouth into a line.

            “She has a baby, Fiona.” He plead for her. The idea of having a grown woman and her toddler son staying at their house was not favored by Ian either, though the little bit of history they’d shared kept him in her defense.

            “She’s a liar, scammer, and thief that committed marriage fraud two times and broke my best friend’s heart.” Ian gave another small glance back at her, bouncing Yevgeny lightly in her arms. Every now and then she would take his cherry nose in a light pinch and he would try to rip away her fingers.

            “She’s the mother of Mickey’s son, and she has nowhere else to go.” Fiona had only gotten more stubborn after Monica died. Ian would never say the words out loud, and she’d sure as hell not admit to it, but she had. Still, her head couldn’t be that hard, there must’ve been something malleable still left in her. He knew there was, and when she stuck her hands on her hips and her eyes flickered to Lana and Ian, he thought for a moment, she might cave.

            “She’s not stayin’ here.” Ian shrugged, waving an invisible white flag. He turned to face Svetlana. He didn’t have the time to fight for her. He wanted to help her, but Fiona had made it clear that if she were to stay her presence would not at all be welcome, not that the rest of his family would be too keen on the idea either.

            “It’s okay. I go find someplace else.” She said, as much as she tried to stay headstrong, her weariness still hung visibly around her shoulders. Ian didn’t want to pity her too much, but the verge of indecisiveness and the pang of indifference was ripping his mind to shreds. He couldn’t let her just sleep in the streets.

            “I could see…if this is really the only place you can stay, they can just deal with it.” Svetlana hugged her little boy tighter to her side.

            “It’s okay, I leave you now, I find another place.” She let herself out, and Ian turned back to Fiona, wanting to cuss at her, the pain of biting his tongue held him, and he dashed back out the door to catch Svet before she was too far gone. Her hair blew light in the breeze and stroked her face. She was a little ways down the sidewalk. “Where will you go?” He shouted, trying to reach her with his voice. She smiled, adjusting her hold and relieving some of Yev’s weight in her arms.

            “Try Milkovich house again, then I go to shelter or they detain me. I have gone through worse, do not worry. You go to funeral, yes, I see you there?” Ian furrowed his brow.

“No,” Svetlana shrugged and kept walking, “wait, what funeral?” She didn’t answer. Ian turned back around with a smothered chest and looked to Frank on the ground, leaning up against the fence, the chain link dug into his boney back. It was hard to tell if he’d actually suffered any physical damage from his fall. Considering he was half naked when he’d toppled over, he must’ve at least sprained something, though Ian didn’t care enough to ask.

            As he came inside, he could hardly control the petty glare he shot at Fiona. He hadn’t meant it to be so harsh, and still he could feel the darkness in his own eyes. Hers only grew in exasperation.

            “Jesus, I’m not the one that got her deported. Don’t get pissed off at me.” Ian muttered a low “whatever” and turned on the TV, collapsing onto the couch, he kicked his feet up and dissolved into the sofa. It was the middle of the day and he was already worn out, Trevor, Frank, Svetlana, not to mention the little remnants of Mickey that settled inside his chest and his groin nearly every day. _Nothing can ever be simple, can it?_ Or maybe it was too simple. He liked Trevor, what happened on the roof was more Frank being Frank than anything, and Svetlana’s deportation was bound to happen, he supposed. He hadn’t ever thought his previously lustrous life would grow so dull so fast. He hated to admit it, but _Jesus_ , he got so damn _bored_ sometimes. One thing he couldn’t attest to being when he was with Mickey.

            It hadn’t left his mind. The thoughts kept rolling through him like heavy tires. It seemed to weigh just as much too. Living in a constant minefield of what-ifs and I-should-haves roughened him more than he already was. It wasn’t often that he found his senses fleeting as he daydreamed of what things could’ve been like, had he chosen to go. Not that it did him any good. As soon as he was conscious of his thoughts, he brought himself back as quickly as he could. It did nothing to think like that. He’d made his bed the second he’d let his voice break the sunlight with his quiet “I can’t.” Lying in it was what proved harder.

           The redheaded Gallagher pulled the thin throw blanket from the top of the couch over himself and watched the droll television. Some annoying re-rerun of _That ‘70s Show_ cracked the quiet, and made noise throughout the house. Still, the longer he laid there the fainter their voices became.

 

Ian rubbed his eyes before he opened them. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep. It was one of those surprise naps that had crept onto him like a quiet cat.  Checking the time on his phone, he pulled at the top of his hair, angry at himself. It was a little past eight, and the stars outside sat in the sky like tiny white freckles. _How the hell did I sleep for four hours?_ He asked himself. Fiona sat folded into the beige chair beside the couch, the only light that came was from the hideous floor lamp behind her and the lit sky. She sighed as he woke, smiling thinly at him. Ian croaked out a curse, feeling more fatigued after his long day-sleep. The TV was on mute and Fi gazed intently into the packet of paperwork she held. Sitting up, Ian gestured at them with a lazy hand.

            “What’s that?” He managed, wringing out the tightness in an aching shoulder. Fiona let out a long breath, before her mouth pulled into a perfect and elated crescent. She was so high on life, just from her own growth and success. Only that his own fulfillment was so easily attainable.

            “Papers, overviews for this apartment building I plan to renovate.” Ian nodded, too tired to praise her. He was proud of his sister, getting into real estate and everything, but he could understand the reason why Lip always ran to him, bitching about her latest business move. She never shut up about herself. After she’d cashed in on the Laundromat, her ego had inflated to the size of a plump parade balloon, and given the opportunity to shove it in others’ faces, she did so with explicit eagerness. “I don’t really care if she stays Ian.” She broke the space with, it took a second for Ian to realize she was talking about Svetlana. “You’re an adult, you can do what you want, but Jesus, she really did a number on them, you know? Kev? V?” Ian smiled kindly at the gesture and then frowned; not like he could contact her if she still wanted to stay. The knot in the Russian’s face had said she was sure she would find somewhere else to stay, Ian didn’t know how good it would be though.

            “Thanks, but she said she’s going somewhere else anyway. Not like I could call her or anything.” The house was still, all that sounded were the bugs outside and the refrigerator’s low hum, and the silence warmed Ian’s senses, and sped up his mind. Sometimes it seemed as though something from inside was screaming at him, shrill and stabbing, too loud to make out whatever was trying to be said. “Frank alright? He fell off the roof today.” Fiona chuckled in quaint amusement.

            “Seemed fine when he was stumbling out of the Alibi.” Ian snickered. _Falling off the roof won’t stop Frank from drinking._ Fiona kept her breath for a long moment and let it go in an audible puff. “I’m gonna go lay down, got a lot to do tomorrow, getting that place renovated and remodeled, it’s not gonna be easy, probably best if I rest up.” She squeezed Ian’s shoulder before she headed up the stairs, papers tucked underneath her arm. Ian rose from the couch and crossed his way into the kitchen. He hadn’t ate since morning, and given he’d slept most of the day, his stomach was empty and lurching when he opened the cabinets. He grabbed a cramped bag of something to munch on.

            The placid house was a bittersweet gift. While the softness soothed him, when he was left alone, he was left to his thoughts and so, the screams grew louder, overwhelming. Mickey. The border. His general discontent. It all rushed him like a mob of gangsters in a dark alley. And his intrusive thinking nibbled and yapped at him tiny bit, by tiny bit. And he knew as well as anyone else it had to stop. Anymore of this, and he’d end up ruining his relationship with Trevor, and he was already trying hard to not let it die. The entire situation with Mick had slowed things down between them, and more often than not, he found himself tip toeing around the little hole it’d shot through everything, while Trevor tried his hardest to patch it up.

            The steady vibration of Ian’s phone shook his pants pocket and he groaned to grab it, and giving an irritated breath, set down the snack he was about to eat. He wasn’t in a mood to talk to anyone. Disappointment and curiosity egged him on as the word, “Unknown,” bannered the top of the screen. Svetlana didn’t have _his_ number, did she? _Probably not._ He figured, answering it anyway. The breath on the other side was rocky and unsettling.

            “Hello?” He spoke, walking closer to the dining table, he held his elbow and listened with mixed emotion to Mandy’s silk voice spin. The slick sound of it was not as familiar as it once was.

            “Hey, Ian?” It was a question. She hadn’t called him in over a year, the fact she had to check to make sure it was him came as no surprise.

            “It’s me, Mandy.” He affirmed, impatient.

            “You watch the local news lately?” Her voice was unsteady and unsure. _She’s nervous_. Ian thought, and his patience grew shorter and shorter the longer she didn’t speak.

            "No, not really, why?  What’s going on?” Ian could’ve choked the words out of her, but the words choked her first. Every time she called him some new shit was going down. _What was her life now_? She was a prostitute, her work wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t safe. _But God,_ Ian thought, _what could it be this time?_

            “Sorry, Iggy said it’s been playing since yesterday night, so I thought maybe you’d seen…it.  And I’ve been making these calls all day, so I thought maybe you heard it from someone else…” She rambled and Ian rubbed his forehead, tension piling inside him.

           “What’s going on Mandy, what happened?” He intercepted her endless banter and listened to her take a long gulp of air before she said it. Her voice was calm and cool, feigning nonchalance, and her words weighed the air like lead.

           “Mickey,” she sighed, “he’s dead.”


	2. IAN

         The edge of the stairs caught Ian’s foot and he almost tripped coming down them. Lip hunted for his cigarettes in only his underwear, while Ian struggled frantically to get all he needed before he was late to work. There was no real reason for him to be late. It was impossible for him to sleep after the call, and still he’d felt the urge to keep under the covers when the sun ran through the blinds. He only stopped in the kitchen to throw a lunch in his bag he was sure he wouldn’t eat and slung his bag over his shoulder.

          Fiona came downstairs, hugged by tight jeans and a nice shirt, before she went to chug down a cup of coffee. Ian weaved through them, fighting his way to the door, and recoiling as Lip turned on the small screen in the living room.

          The monotonous sound of the news anchor bit him like an angry dog and Fiona poked her head from the kitchen at the name, walking a little ways in, the headline looked gross and slanderous.   _Chicago Fugitive, Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich Found Dead in Mexico._ Staring blankly, he hid the disgust that settled in his stomach as the news of his ex-boyfriend’s death smacked him in the face, once again. All eyes were on Ian.

         “Shit man,” Lip finally stammered, snuffing the heavy silence.“You okay?”

         “Yeah,” Ian kept, “yeah, Mandy called me last night and told me. Said she’ll call me again sometime today, go over the details, morgue, the service, stuff like that.” Fiona, dumbstruck, scrunched her eyebrows together and blinked at Ian, ruffled.

         “You knew about this since yesterday? Why didn’t you say anything?” Ian grabbed his phone from the arm of the couch before the cushions ate it. “How are you goin’ to work?” Ian sighed and readjusted his bag.

          “Not missing work over an ex-boyfriend.” It was a dumb thing to say, and regret flashed in the heat of his cheeks as he said it. He hoped the dead did not have ears.

          “Few months ago, you said you couldn’t stop thinkin’ about him, and now he’s just some ex boyfriend?” She meant well, just checking up on her little brother, succumb to the throws of grief, but Ian was more of an avoid-until-it-crushes-you sort of guy and right now he only wanted to shove it all to his back burner, and stick himself inside his safe space.

          “If I stay here, I’ll just think about it all day anyway.” _And listen to you all talk about how sorry you are._ The last thing he wanted was their pity, and he didn’t think his job would allow bereavement leave for a fugitive Ian hadn’t actually _dated_ in years, either.

          “If you need anyone to talk to—” The slam of the door as Ian left cut Lip’s words in half.

          Walking to the train station, Ian’s surroundings were cold and distant. The small wind and the pole on the L all came to feel blank and empty in his touch. All his senses were cut, save his ability to think, the world felt cloudy and slack, slipping into the routine of things. Teetering and unbalanced, had he not been strangling the metal with his hand, he might’ve collapsed into the ridges of the train floor. He wagged his head, trying to shake the fuzziness. Nauseous, as things snapped clearer, and he stumbled out the door at his stop.

            Stepping into the station, made him no less detached when he shoved his bag inside his locker and groaned at the pecking discomfort. There was an ache in his chest and his head was a bag of feathers. _Not the best mind for a medical technician_. He knew, but given he was already in uniform and at work, there was no point in bailing now.

            His phone rang to Mandy’s call during his lunch break, which was dry and depressing and, as expected, didn’t involve food. He made her a contact with her new number the previous evening after the call, and he picked up fast when her name lit the screen.

            “Hey,” he spoke inside his gasp. Mandy’s words were not brimmed with so much hurt this time.

            “Hey, you got time to talk?” Ian gave a quick backwards glance. His break was almost over, but his boss wasn’t there to nag him to hurry the hell up.

            “Yeah, I got time.”

            “I’m in New York right now. But, I told Iggy when I get there I’ll plan the service. He doesn’t know how the fuck to do any of that shit, not that I’d ever trust him to anyway. I was hoping you’d help me get a small funeral for him together. I have enough money to pay for a decent casket, though I was gonna ask if maybe you could pitch in, seems funerals always cost a lot no matter how shitty the service.” The chuckle she gave near the end felt forced and self soothing. She was never one to display the depth of her sadness. Ian settled himself in a deep breath. The talk of it pricked him with a dozen of fresh needles.

            “I can help you with the expenses, Mandy, don’t worry about all that, I’ll be with you, through all this.” He looked over his shoulder as more employees flooded the locker, all them speaking at an abhorrent volume. Ian did his best to block his obnoxious coworkers, but their howls of laughter thumped his nerves.

            “Thanks, I just need someone to help me, you know, honor him. I’ll be damned before I let those prison cocksuckers take his body, slap a number on a rock and forget about it. You were the last person I wanted to tell, sorry I called so late yesterday…wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

            “Still don’t know how to react.” Ian rubbed at his brow with the heel of his hand, waking his senses and ignoring the brash and brawny techs.

            “I’ll be there in a few days, to pick out a casket and everything.” She sighed before she spoke again. “I know he was an asshole, but, he was my fucking brother, he didn’t deserve this.”

             His nerves were shot and his throat was dry. He was an exposed nerve, numb and sensitive, all at the same time; he could hardly find the strength to talk back.  The gravity was still pushing on his shoulders. When he had kissed Mickey, at the border, he’d done it with the taste of goodbye on his lips and the expectation that he’d never see him again. But, he had the grace and reason to content himself with the knowledge that he would be fine in Mexico, on the beach, where he should have been, not currently being transferred between morgues.

            “No, he didn’t.” Was all he could reciprocate before the two said their goodbyes and hung up.

            “You hear about that escaped prisoner from around here? They found him in Mexico.” Ian’s head jerked a little, before he resumed settling his things inside his locker. He supposed that local news did make casual conversation, but it made the remark from Ian’s coworker no less personal. “Said he was all burnt up and crispified, they could barely identify him.” _Just casual conversation_ , Ian tried to tell himself.

            “You always keep tabs on the prison escapees of Chicago?” A mousy girl retorted playfully. Color rushed into Ian’s face and his cheeks grew into a painting of stormy pink patches.

            “Saw it on the news. Fugitives never make it far, he made it further than most but still, he’s any idiot. Go through all that trouble escaping just to die a few months later.” At that the  veins in Ian’s neck became hard and swollen with blood and anger. No one was more idiot than he was, for thinking it didn’t take a special sort of smart to break out of prison, and for thinking that Mickey wasn’t. _They can talk about the news all they want, but I’ll be damned before I let them talk like that about Mickey._

            “Could you shut the fuck up?” Ian finally intercepted, nonchalant, and laced with venom. He slammed his locker shut, and turned to face the guy, who only stared back confused and offended.

            “Did I say something?” It did look strange. Ian, an EMT, getting pissed about some _fugitive._ That’s not what he thought when he thought of Mickey Milkovich though. He was Mickey, and he happened to escape prison. The rest ran shallow. He was still that dirty Southside bad boy he’d met when he was a teenager, and so much more. And while it was unrealistic for Ian to get them to even begin imagining what that felt like, what losing Mickey felt like, he couldn’t stand to let them talk like that. Any other fucker he might’ve joined in on their juvenile, ill led comments, but not Mickey, no, not _him._

            “Yeah, you were talking about that ‘idiot’ that died like he wasn’t more than a fucking cockroach. You don’t know him, you don’t know who he left behind. _Jesus_ , what the fuck is your problem?” Ian wanted to hit him. He _really_ wanted to hit him. He wanted to see his hair shake out of place and hear his nose crack on his knuckles and watch him fly into the wall behind him.

            “Looks like you’re the only one with a damn problem, dude. I’m sorry, but, fuck, learn how to take a joke.” His tone was spiteful and contempt, like _he_ had a reason to be offended. Ian threw a cynical chuckle in his direction.

            “You know what you’re right, I need to learn how to take a joke. _I_ need to learn how to take a fucking joke.” Ian was close, a loose cannon, and the fuse was lit and sickeningly close to the barrel. “Because…that’s funny? Because someone dying is a _fucking_ joke?” _One._

            “Hey man, calm down, okay, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He raised his hand defensively to which only amplified the fervor that rung in Ian’s ears.

            “Didn’t mean anything fucking by it!” _Two._ “You know what, I don’t blame you, you’re a shitty, stupid, prick anyway. You know how hard it is to break out of  prison. Huh? Do you?”

            “I told you I was sorry.” He was scared. _Good._ His cheeks were rosy and sweat was collecting in his dark blond hair.

            “That’s it?” Ian gave another sarcastic laugh, “You’re sorry?” The guy gave small nod. _Three._ Ian’s fist collided with the guy’s skinny jaw, and he staggered back, holding it, before he returned the favor and landed his thin knuckles over Ian’s eye, knocking him in the skull. Ian hit him in the teeth and the girl he’d been talking to ran out of the room. He couldn’t stop, he was kicking him on the ground, punching him. A tendril of demon smoke had ran into Ian’s lungs and consumed him. All that mattered were the marks that he’d leave on the man’s face, who had managed to earn a few swings back, though the adrenaline that pushed Ian was nearly lethal.

            Rita rushed in with the mousy girl, pointing at the rough scuffle between metal benches. “There, that guy just hit Josh, and they started fighting.” _Snitch_ , Ian thought, as Rita struggled to pry the two apart. He collapsed onto one of the benches, both of their faces were showered in blood, red and puffy in places that would turn into bruises.

            “That true, Gallagher?” Ian didn’t answer, too busy wiping the mess that bled from his nose and mouth. Rita licked her lips and looked to the ceiling, exasperated, Ian could see the decision she was making on her face. “Go home. You’ve been acting strange for the past few months.” Ian was hurt. “I’m putting you on suspension until next week, but one more incident, one more, and you’re gone, I don’t know if this is you’re disorder or what, but you need to get it together, Gallagher.” One thing about having a mental illness was that his actions were often the blame of it. _But it’s not_ , Ian had come to realize, _it’s grief._

And being an exposed, grievous nerve, he’d felt it all. There were the times he was numb, where everything was clouded by a thick fog and all he could notice was the feeling of being suffocated. But he was not numb when he’d hit “Josh.” The girl’s giggling, the guy’s pretentious comments about Mickey, it all had pressed on his chest until he had no other choice but to press back. _Fuck_. He wanted to cry. He wanted to burst in tears, like a broken teenage girl. He wanted to react the way people were supposed to react to these sorts of things, but physically, he couldn’t. Something still fighting inside him couldn’t. He had forgiven Mickey for everything, every punch he’d took as a teenager, every tear he’d shed because of him, every time he’d annoyed the living hell out of him, but this, _this_ was unforgivable. _How dare you fucking die, Mickey_. Ian could’ve ripped his hair out sitting right there. _How dare you fucking leave me like this._

           He needed to scream, he needed to scream and he needed to bawl and he needed taste salt on his tongue and not iron. And he knew he couldn’t only be angry with Mickey, _he’d_ left Mickey too. He’d left him at the border with his heart broken and a wad of cash he probably hadn’t even finished spending. _I should’ve gone with him, I should’ve gone with him, and I should have been there to keep him safe._ That’s what people that loved each other were supposed to do. They were supposed to take care of each other, to keep each other safe. And Ian had failed at that. He had failed at keeping him safe, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself for failing him anymore than he could forgive Mickey for dying.

 

The house was quiet and empty when Ian returned. _Thank God_. He tossed his bag onto the couch and stomped straight to the bathroom. It was worse than he’d thought it be. Dried, caked, black blood hit his cheeks and ran over his mouth, his chin looked like a dark hole, from where all of it collected, and there was a ridiculous large bump on his cheek. His eye was already beginning to bruise. Though it didn’t stop at his face, his arms would be blackened by the end of the day, and hands were drenched in blood from Josh’s face. _Might as well take a shower_.

            The water released itself from the faucet and Ian scrubbed in a therapeutic coolness. It trickled down his back and smoothed his wounds, the red fell off him, clean. _If only it could wash away the rest._ He dried himself with a rough towel and wore jeans and with fresh black t-shirt. He threw his soiled clothes in the washer, though he doubted the stains would ever completely lift from the light blue uniform.

            He grabbed a beer from the fridge, ice cool with beads of water rolling down once it hit the air. _Fuck,_ he needed a drink. In the living room, he collapsed back onto the couch, and flicked on the TV screen with the remote. The news still on, still going over their story from the morning, Ian could feel bile rise in his throat. Josh had been right about one thing. He was certainly _crispified_ , as he’d put it _._ The footage of the burned building was an ocean of black dust and snowy ash. _Fuck._ When he needed some sort of goddamn release, it relented, and still no tears left his eyes. He was looking at the place Mickey had burned to death and he _still_ couldn’t fucking cry. _Whatever_ , it wasn’t like he could force himself too. The last thing Ian caught was some stupid stuff about tattoo ink in skin, before he completely zoned out.

            He turned his head slowly around when he heard heavy feet stomping on the staircase. He’d thought he was the only one home. Though, Lip’s Romanesque face greeted him seriously. Ian only held his gaze for a while, before he turned back to look at the screen in front of him, taking another taste of alcohol

            “You back from work already?” Ian was holding a certain repulsion at the sound of his own voice at the moment. He forced himself to speak.

            “Yeah, got into a fight at the station, suspended me.” Lip swore in a concerned mutter, and Ian’s eyelids grew heavy with sorrow. Ian dragged his breath and asked lazily, “where’s Fiona?” Though, he couldn’t really give a shit.

            “Went to deal the apartment stuff, that…investment.” Ian could feel Lip examining him, rough and swollen, and sickly. “She told you, you shouldn’t be workin’.” The woeful ginger fixed an irritated smile and nodded in a way that mocked both of them. “You know, it’s okay, to be upset over this. You guys were together a long time, I mean, it makes sense you’d, I don’t know, mourn.” Ian stared through the television. It was no longer a major headline, though every time they’d revisit the story, he would take another swig. “Turn this shit off. You don’t need to see it.” He snagged the remote and pressed the off button. “What? You just gonna sit here, drink yourself under the fucking table?” Ian downed the rest of his beer in response and Lip bolted from his seat, pretending to not notice the pitifully agitated look his brother gave him before he disappeared back up the stairs and returned wearing a Patsy’s t-shirt. He muttered a swear before he left to work.

 

It was evening when Ian moved from the couch, entering the kitchen, and taking yet another drink from the fridge. He’d lost count of how many he’d had by now, and he was well past drunk. He could hardly tell what his own fingertips looked like. He popped off the cap on the side of counter and glared at the door when a knock sounded from the outside. A sip to make himself move, and he crossed the room to answer it. Underwhelmed at the sight of Trevor, he wasn’t even coordinated enough to roll his eyes, and so he blinked in some strange fit of annoyance, and let him in.

            “See you’ve been drinking,” Trevor observed, meeting the clusters of beer bottles around the couch. Ian ignored the comment and returned to the kitchen. He could feel Trevor hanging on his back when he followed him. “I heard about your ex on the news. I’m really sorry.” The way he attempted to comfort him disgusted Ian. The way he talked, his voice, the awkward space between his words, hinting that while he did care for Ian’s loss, he was also relieved, relieved that he no longer had a competition. _Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean how I felt about him no longer triumphs how I feel about you, Trevor._

            “Why did you come here?” Ice was in the drunk redhead’s voice, and he reached inside the top cabinet, searching for Tylenol. His head was searing.

            “See if you were okay. H-hey, what happened to your face?” Trevor tilted his head trying to get a better look. Ian swallowed a pair of pills from a Tylenol packet, not bothering to look at him. His face must’ve been a field of purple by now. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. If you ever need me, I’m here.” Ian took a sip that he swished in his mouth before he swallowed. He’d been sad and pissy before he got shitfaced drunk and obtained the worst headache in his life, Trevor’s peeve of an attempt at consolation didn’t help.

            “Sorta tired of hearing that,” Ian murmured. Trevor felt less like his boyfriend at the moment, and more like—well, Ian didn’t know what he felt like, but he didn’t feel like his boyfriend and he wished he would just drop it and leave.

            “Okay, sorry…I was just checking on you.” Trevor was lost in how to react, not like Ian expected him to know how, he, himself, still hadn’t completely decided on a response to the person he loved like no other, dead from a horrible fire. Flashes of it ran through Ian’s drunk mind like a thousand nightmares. Mickey. Burning, screaming, his lungs soaking in dark smoke and choking on his own raw throat, terrified, in pain. _No, no, I should’ve save you._ He let out a dry sob, and held onto the counter to keep himself from falling. “Maybe you should slow down with the drinks.” Trevor said, right before Ian twisted to puke into the sink. Vomit slid over the dirty dishes and he wiped his mucky mouth on his shirt sleeve, swallowing a disgusting mouthful of spit. He recovered quickly.

            “Just-just stop, please, okay, I get you’re trying to help and everything, but you, you don’t know what I had with him, what I-what I lost.” Ian’s words felt like they were molding together, and he tried with a ridiculous amount of effort to separate them.

            “Ian—” Ian held his hand, and closed his eyes, irritated.

            “And stop with that gleam in your eye, like now that he’s gone, you have no fucking competition. Jesus Christ, you are half the man he ever was,” Ian laughed with intoxicated conviction, his lack of sobriety made his words no less painful, “ _literally_.” Trevor swallowed, hurt in his eyes, the atmosphere shifted at the word.

            “I’m sorry about Mickey, Ian,” he said solemnly. He turned to leave, but Ian, aggravated and wasted shouted at his back while he turned to walk away. Ian had been itching for him to leave, and now the feeling was more than mutual. He couldn’t go that easy though, not after Ian had owned him like that. _Come on Trevor, don’t be a fucking pussy._

            “Aren’t you gonna do something? Fucking hit me, do _something_!” Trevor faced him for another moment. And the look on his face was something Ian couldn’t read, partly because it was blurry and partly because it was so empty.

            “Is that what he would’ve done?” He gave a slow, contempt blink, and Ian looked to him blankly.

            “Yeah, yeah he would’ve, and then we would’ve—” Ian struggled to get the words out, pushing them with too much effort, Trevor took a deep breath and helped him out.

            “What?”

            “We would’ve fucked. We would have fucked, and you’ll never know—you’ll never know—” Ian’s words fell into the bottle, as he lost his balance and plunged into the floor, ignorant of the pathetic look Trevor gave him.

            “I hope you feel better Ian, but—just because you’re fucking hurting doesn’t mean you have to hurt everyone else around you.” The door shut loudly behind him and Ian winced, leaning on the side of his head into the refrigerator, not sure if he was going to puke again or pass out. He did neither. Instead, hitting the side of the fridge with angry knuckles, so hard it was almost a miracle that they hadn’t broken. _Broken_ , Ian considered, _just like everything else._


	3. IAN

           Mandy’s skinny fingers slid across a marble casket that shone like a million glazed spider webs and her eyes grew pensive looking at it. Ian glimpsed at her and checked his phone for the hundredth time. He’d been texting Trevor all day, calling him several times, though after a consistent lack of replies, he’d finally given it a rest. He’d already left two voicemails apologizing and the guy still wasn’t picking up. Not like he could expect him to after the things he’d said. His head had been heavy with fog, and his blood had been thin from alcohol, but he knew just as well that it was no excuse for the things he’d said. _Too bad I can’t just take it all back._ He would’ve liked to take a lot back, from the moment Mandy called him and said Mickey was dead, or sooner, when he’d left Mickey, alone, at the border. _Everything,_ Ian thought, _if I could just take back everything_. The funeral home had sent a crashing wave of nausea down his throat already, from the moment he came into the door, the low classical music, the mourning families, the thick air of the dead. An air Mickey was a part of now.

            “What’re you thinking?” Ian asked suddenly in an attempt to keep his thoughts from killing him.

            “’Bout how much he did for me. Shit, he almost killed _you_ because I asked him to.” Ian remembered the day Mick ran into the Kash and Grab, about to kick his ass after Mandy ran to her brother crying over Ian. _The good old days_ , Ian smiled to himself as he thought, _when things were just as easy as they were complicated._ It had been only a few days before the first time they’d fucked.

            “I meant what you were thinking for the casket,” Ian clarified. Mandy’s face fell and she swallowed her spit.

            “Oh, yeah,” she said, “I dunno, maybe black. He wasn’t really a fan of color. What do you think he would’ve wanted?” A smoky, dark gray coffin sat in a sample next to an oak box, for only a few thousand dollars. The finish was reflective and glossy, framed by dark, silver handles.

            “That one’s nice.” Ian nodded his head in the direction of the long case, and Mandy tensed at it. He didn’t want to be there anymore than she did.

            “Yeah, it is, I’ll go get the funeral director.” Mandy lingered a miserable hand on Ian’s shoulder before she left. He hadn’t expected this to be the way he saw her again, arranging a funeral service for Mickey. He hadn’t expected half the things that had happened in his life, fucking Mickey Milkovich, falling in love with him, finding out he escaped prison, hearing that he was dead… _Mick wasn’t ever really known for being predictable._

            “Yes, that’ll be fine,” the funeral director said, he was old and had gray hairs sprouting from a thick, wrinkly nose. “You have in mind the pallbearers?” Ian did not at all like the quick glances Mandy was giving him.

            He couldn’t do that. _Not that._ Literally, take Mickey to his grave, carry his dead body in some decorative box into a gash in the ground. He’d like more to jump into the hole himself. He loved him too much. The thought of him even being buried rose the hairs on Ian’s skin and made shivers crawl his spine. _Then again_ , Ian considered, for the sake of Mandy, and the sake of Mick, _means I’d be the last one to hold him_. It was an odd sentiment, but one was enough to push him forward from thinking he couldn’t do it at all.

            “Yeah, yeah, my um, cousins said they’re going to do it. We’re short two, but I was gonna just make my brother put up with it, and well, Ian, I was gonna ask you, but I thought you probably wouldn’t want to do it, I mean, fuck, with all the shit you guys went through.” Ian sighed and shook his head. She had the strength to ask him, he needed to have the strength to do it.

            “It’s fine.” Mandy stared, surprised and her brows almost hit the ceiling with concern.

            “You sure?” _Won’t be if you keep askin’._ The waves of nausea were crashing back into him, and the tide was tight. He closed his eyes in an effort to regain his composure and reiterated himself sternly with a half smile.

            “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it.”

 

“Hard to find a picture of Mickey where he’s not flipping off the camera or looks like he might be covered in dog shit.” Mandy sifted through a box of old photos, trying to find something decent enough to use in the service. Ian helped, though he doubted its use, given he knew the contents of the stack no better than Mandy. Happening to find a few from when Mickey was a child. Pale as milk with pink splashed cheeks, his hair was greased up in spiky tufts of black. _Cute._ Ian gave his first genuine smile since Mandy had called him, natural and unstrained.

            “Could use a mugshot,” he joked, Mandy managed a tiny grin through the blond strands that fell to her shoulders, the amusement on her face was not as authentic as Ian’s had been. “You got any of his high school pictures?”

            “If so, he’s probably like a freshman in them, he dropped out when he was so young.” Ian nodded, _hadn’t thought of that._ “You got any? I don’t know if maybe you have something you guys took together...” Ian’s stomach wrung itself out. He did. Somewhere up on the photo album on his phone, he knew there were some. He didn’t delete pictures often, and he wasn’t sure, as he pulled his phone from his pocket to look, if it was a blessing or a curse.

            “I do, but, don’t think they’ll be any better.” Ian scrolled through them, anxiety rising from the root of his belly to the sore parts of his throat. He hadn’t looked at them in a while, and when he was reintroduced to the few squares taken up by portraits of orange and black heads, his anxiety was no longer rising, but ripping him to pieces. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like seeing Mickey still alive and happy, he understood why some people did, some sort of hallmark, a memorial of what they were like when they were still here. But he hated it. It only made the obvious more obvious. That Mickey would never look like that again.

             He let all his emotional sensitivities subside as he flipped through them in search of something decent, though most of them were as he expected. _Too dark. Too shirtless. Middle Finger._ Halting at brightly taken sun shot of the two, facing the window in Mickey’s room. Mickey’s eyes had glittered like rugged nuggets of sapphire. Being in the Milkovich house shot pellets of memory that pierced Ian’s head, and rang his ears. _He looked so happy_ , Ian thought, _I made him happy…until I went and fucked everything over._ He was not sure of the exact moment he had, but it was no secret whose fault it was.

            Saving himself from descending deeper into his pit of self loathing, he cropped himself out and held up the picture for Mandy to see. “How’s that?” She smiled sweetly and nodded.

            “Send it to me, I’ll go print it out.” Ian looked to her, amused and raised an eyebrow.

            “You have a printer?” The Milkovich house didn’t have much of anything that looked worth more than a crumpled twenty dollar bill.

            “Yes, asshole,” Mandy said playfully, “brother stole one.” Ian chuckled lightly and stood from where they’d been sitting on the floor, smoothing his jeans with his hands and taking a gander at the place Mickey grew up in. The house was haunted, phantoms of the past airing every corner, dancing. And while Ian knew, staring at that rough duct taped sign that read _STAY THE FUCK OUT_ , scribbled in Mickey’s violent handwriting, he would only be greeted by more ghosts of the past, twirling around in his mind, he could not bar himself from opening the door, and allowing the phantoms their dance.

            And dance they did. The room engulfed him in a pool of memory. _Mickey_ , Ian thought, _it still fucking smells like him._ The room was a maze of clutter, cigarettes put out on the headboard, a few legal documents strewn atop his dresser from before his conviction, dirty clothes made a moat around the bed, and Ian gazed around at those scraggly posters still trashing his wall. A sea of chaos. _Just like him_.  

           He stopped to take a second look up at a little square of a large _Sniper_ poster, covered by a worn picture of Ian, red hair lit by the sun as he gave the camera the bird. It was wrinkly and torn at the edges, and the tape was dirty and peeling off. _He still had up my picture, even after…_ Ian thought, _Jesus, Mickey_. Holding the corner of the picture, his ears rung and for a moment he thought he might’ve finally cried, before a wave of silence wrecked him, and he was met once more with dry eyes. The phantoms were no longer dancing. They were still and stabbing at his shoulders, digging deeper when he picked up one of Mick’s shirts from the heap of clothes, a blue and black plaid thing with the sleeves cut off. He held it to the side of his face, it still held the scent of sweat and summer, and the thoughts swarming his mind at the smell flushed him. He pulled it from his cheek and pinched the fabric around between his fingers.

            “Hey,” Mandy whispered into the room, holding the printed photo. Ian’s head turned at the sound of her voice, and then back to Mick’s old shirt. “I’m gonna go drop this off at the funeral home.” Ian sighed and gave a casual nod.

            “Yeah, okay, do you want me to come with you?” His eyes burned from tears that would not fall and Mandy saw through him, as clear and brittle as glass.

            “Nah, it’s okay, it won’t take too long,” her eyes flicked to the picture on the wall, and down at the shirt between Ian’s fingers. _Don’t pity me too much Mandy._ “He really cared about you, Ian.” Ian stared back to the wall, his breath became rough, and he avoided the sorry look in Mandy’s eyes. _Yeah,_ he thought, _Yeah, he did, and I should have done something about it._

Mickey’s funeral was in no way close to how Ian had pictured it. Apparently Ukrainian Americans ran deep in their amount of extended family. The crowd that crawled through the funeral home was extensive, much bigger than he’d thought it would be. The picture they’d chosen looked shiny and clean on the tripod, Mick’s name had never looked prettier than in the fancy black script underneath it.

            Carrying the casket inside hadn’t as been as hard Ian thought it would be, given his expectation was that he would be prone to dropping it at any given moment. A simple lift and pull process, the box was already bolted shut, as the burns hadn’t left much to look at. They’d set it down on the stand, and Ian had huffed and raced to sit down in fear of passing out. _Carrying it out might not be so easy,_ he thought. The rest of the pallbearers sat clad in black in the first row, save he and Joey who were packed with the rest of the Milkovich siblings on the seat behind them. Ian watched Svetlana take a seat in the pews next to them, Yevgeny in her lap, right when a loud stumbling mess burst through the service doors. _Terry_.

            Mickey’s father, a stocky, hooked nose man, looked just as mean as he was, while at the moment, his menacing eyes were not as menacing as they were cloudy. _He’s drunk._ His uneven steps led him into a dark wooden seat somewhere in the same area Svet sat. As the field of Milkovich family and friends settled into their seats, Ian leaned his head into the crook of Mandy’s neck, and whispered lowly.

            “What’s Terry doing here? Thought he was in prison.” Mandy looked pretty in her smooth black dress. While she had been downcast during the entire round of funeral dealings, her lips now were tightly suppressing a curl.

            “Out on furlough, he’s being released in a few months, glad I won’t be here to deal with his shit.” She answered quickly, as to cut herself away from the bouts of laughter that seemed to seep from her chest. He ignored her strange behavior, and stared darkly at Terry. He’d been fine with giving his anecdote ten minutes ago, now that Terry had arrived he wasn’t so sure. _Please don’t fuck this up too much_ , he begged, and turned his attention to the stage as the conductor took the stand and preambled the service.

            Everyone spoke sweet written words that poured from their lips. Mandy spoke about how he’d always been one to care for his family, while a few of his cousins that Ian was not so familiar with spoke on his cool, hard character, the sturdiness in how he presented himself. Iggy spoke something that didn’t quite make sense, some burr of nonsense that included the sentiment that his “legacy” would live on. Though, Ian knew as much he loved him that “legacy” was a strong word to describe Mickey’s shadow. _His touch_ , Ian thought, _the way he’d touched each of our lives…that will live on._

            Before he knew it, Mandy was nudging the meat of his bicep and giving wide, expecting eyes _._ It was his turn. _Already?_ Ian asked himself, _Why did I agree to this_? Had Mandy known what had happened at the border, she may have not been so insistent on him being the one to give the closing eulogy. Ian stood and glided through the funeral air. Passing the audience, Terry whispered loudly through the calm room, “ _the fuck’s that faggot doin’ here_?”as Ian took the miniature staircase to the podium, not granting the remark a single regard.

            He took a few deep breaths and stared at the many heads beneath him. Now that he stood in front of it all, the room felt even fuller. His heart gave booming palpations, so loud, he wondered if anyone else could hear. He pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his suit and smoothed it onto the podium. If he held it, he’d risk losing everyone to the distraction of his quaking hands. Mandy gave a tiny nod and mouthed a sweet “it’s okay” at him before he took his last deep breath, before he opened his mouth to speak.

           “Mickey has always been strong.” He let the words sit in the air for a moment, glancing around to see how people were reacting. Terry was snickering, though he did his best not let it irk him. “From the time he was just a kid I knew from baseball, to the rough teenager, and to the man that I,” his heart was no longer thumping in his chest, but had risen to the middle of his throat, “that I cared so much about.” It was out quick and under his breath. “I’ve seen him grow, not only in age, but as a person. I’ve seen him survive some stuff, that, I know I couldn’t ever make it through. He was always there to fight off whatever stood its feet in front of him. I mean, if he cared about you, he would die for you—or go to prison for you. And none of you can object to that. He was strong. He married someone he didn’t love, someone he was forced too, I know I would’ve been scared to do that shit, but he wasn’t. He fought anyone that stood in his way, he’d ran after me, when he thought I’d done something to his sister, and he stood up to a room of homophobic—” he wanted to say “assholes,” but it was already getting more personal than he’d intended. “—people, and admitted to being gay…and that took some sorta fuckin’ guts…so…yeah.” Ian moved from the stage as fast as he could when he was gone, collapsed again, next to Mandy, he gave a small, nervous chuckle, and she smiled at him.

            “Hey, you did good, asswipe, calm down.” Ian nodded, trying his best to cool himself, his palms were moist and hot against the rough of his trousers. He did it. He made it through without passing out, or toppling off the stage, and the director was on his way back to the podium, when Terry stood in his stupor, shooting through the silence like an arrow.

            “I-I got somethin’ ta say.” He professed, and staggered through the aisle. Ian was already heated with the anxiety of his own speech, the last thing he needed was the warm anger that would arise at any of Terry’s generous defamations.

            “Sit down Terry.” Ian stood, and stated in a firm tone. Terry pulled his head back to look at Ian, blinking his eyes around to see clearly.

            “You tryna stop me from speakin’ at my own son’s fuckin’ funeral?” The rest of the crowd murmured amongst themselves, and a few of Mickey’s uncles gave evil glares that held him from any further protest. Mandy shook her head at him and he sat back down and only prayed that Terry would not fuck things up beyond repair

            “Mickey.” He began, holding onto the sides of the podium to steady his teetering intoxication. “Hmph.” He glared around the room. _More people than will ever be there when you die asshole, take a good look_. “What a little shit.” Ian’s stomach was filled with a flutter of insects, and he did his best to not run onto the stage and drag him down. Mickey seemed to have left him a violent specter where the hole in Ian’s chest was. He certainly felt more inclined to reacting with his fists than he usually did, especially with an evil idiot making a fool on the stand of a funeral. “It’s a shame I got to call that fucking faggot my son.” Ian’s nose flared in a deep exhale, and Mandy rolled her eyes. Not that he understood how she could just sit there. _That prick raised her_ , Ian weighed, _she’s more used to it than I am._ “That idiot with red hair jus’ spoke is his girlfriend.” He belched and Ian suppressed, once more, the burning urge to knock out Terry’s teeth from his fat skull.“But, eh, you ain’t got n’other choice but to put the fuck up with it.” Another belch. “Even though if he was still here, I’d kick his queer ass out of my house!” His eyes were lazy and tired in his head and he looked for a moment as though he would collapse into the stand. “It was his choice to be the pussy, fairy faggot he was—and if he goes to Hell, no other choice but to put up with it.”

             The room was silent, and the conductor followed Terry in an embarrassed buzz, doing his best to recover the sanctity of the service. It was a pretty effort, though a stream of homophobic slurs and frantic swears into the pit of a memorial service was not something extremely recoverable. And while Terry’s words were an inconsistent flush of hurt, their general meaning remained clear and true. Ian _had_ no other choice to put up with it. He couldn’t change anything that had happened in the last three months, no matter how much he wished, no matter how much he bargained, and no matter how much he whispered pleas of sorrow into the empty air as he went to sleep. None of this would change, and no matter how much he knew he needed to accept it, his broken heart _swore_ that he wouldn’t.

            After the director tried his best with the closing graces after the drunken scene of slop Terry had made, loud, twinkling piano that rang the tune to _You Raise Me Up_ ran throughout the funeral home, and Ian took a deep breath. This was it. It was coming. He knew this was coming. _And still it’s fucking me up_ , Ian thought as he and the other pallbearers filed out from the audience.

           They gathered around the casket and Ian could feel a lump of ice weigh his chest as he gripped his fingers around one of the silver handles, little mirrors that reflected the dark of his slacks. The other men took their positions behind and around him, holding the other sides. He was between Joey and some other Milkovich, Brandon or Brady, or some shit like that. The coolness of the metal was only cool for a little while, before Ian’s hands ignited the handle with warm, slick sweat, and he adjusted his grip before it slid from his nervous fingers.

           Hearses were not cool, or strange, or something that should be the title of a rock band’s album. They were dark and dismal, and filled with a natural emetic, and carrying Mickey’s body to one, ran a bundle of shivers through his body, washing in and out of him in a dizzying flourish. It slid in unsteadily, and the crow of a car, pulled along with it, leaving the pallbearers to disperse among their own rides. Ian sat with Mandy in the backseat of the ratty Milkovich car, Iggy drove, and Joey took up the passenger seat as they followed the hearse to the first traffic light on the way to the graveyard.

           Iggy was not the most careful driver, and he swung into the side of the street to park. Ian was both conflicted and eager to exit the hard seat of Iggy’s ride, moving from one unsteady surface to another. The ground was lumpy and light underneath him. His legs were soft, weak, and wobbly as he returned to the back of the hearse.

           The case that held Mickey’s body was carried by the hands of half a dozen men who set the casket onto the platform above the grave. And the ginger pallbearer’s lungs reached for air as his eyes met the sight of Mickey’s body, encased in a thick box of silver and painted wood, slowly descending into a long hole in the ground. Mandy held Ian’s shoulder, her hand working as the only agent to keep him from falling through the ground. The land under his feet felt weightless, and his head felt heavy, and as the conductor went on about “ashes and ashes, and dust to dust,” he kept himself from fainting as best he could.

 

The service was being conducted on a cloud, and the winds were tying Ian’s insides together, relieving him whatever connection he had with reality. All else to feel was physical, the rough ends of his hair scratching his forehead, the cool breeze and the sounds of the birds that made noise in the trees, singing for Mickey in high shrill tweets and whistles.

           Svetlana’s voice was what broke the barrier of the real world and the fantastical denial of Ian’s mind. “Hey, carrot boy!” His eyes snapped out of an empty stare and he looked to her with conscious eyes. “I ask if you go to reception.”

           “Oh, uh, I’m probably gonna head home, I can’t, just, this is just too much.” Svetlana ran her eyes along Ian, the ropes of anxious tension that hung around him were in thick, clear bunches that were hard to ignore. He sighed. “Are you?”

           “No,” she shook her head with a sad, tall face, “I have too much to do.” Ian nodded, he needed a smoke.

           “H-hey, if you still need a place to stay—” Ian didn’t know why he said it. Her situation may have been rectified by now, but in his heart, wrecked with turmoil, he needed anything that would keep him from wallowing in a pool of his own sorrow.

           “No, I leave tomorrow. Why I am busy, I must pack.” Ian gaped a little. Her eyes were emeralds of fear, and his own grew shards of worry at the words she’d spat, packed with counterfeit carelessness.

           “ _Tomorrow_?” His voice was low and stuck with disbelief.

           “I would have liked to leave sooner, but I stay longer for funeral. He is father of child, it is only right.” Ian fought his irritation. _Tomorrow._ As convincing Svet’s act may have been to others, he could see through the steel Russian face, and into her insecure eyes. Green, just like his, inside of them, she could not hide her self doubt.

            “Jesus.” Why his care for her had suddenly raised from an unsure brew of thoughts to incredulous disappointment wasn’t particularly exact. Though there was something about it that had to do with Mickey, and Yevgeny, and the way she’d kissed them both in the kitchen before she went to meet the parents to her surrogate child. How he changed their child’s diapers while Mickey left to work, and the times they’d all visited him behind plate glass inside prison walls.

             It didn’t help that Mandy was going back to New York in the next few weeks. Terry would be out soon enough, but it’s not like he was an option of Milkovich to talk to. He could talk to Iggy, that is, if Iggy was smart enough to keep a conversation that was about more than sex, drugs, or violence. In some ways, Svetlana and Yevgeny were the closest things to having a slice of Mickey left, and they’d soon be the farther from Ian than anyone of them. One ghost that would dance away.

            “I leave clothes and belongings hidden in Alibi, so that shitty ex boyfriend and girlfriend could not find, but I must get when they are not looking. I still do not know where to live when I get back to country.” She took a deep breath and squeezed Yevgeny’s hand. _Does she have any sort of fuckin’ plan_? Ian thought as she tugged her boy by his small chubby arm. “We must go now, come, Yev, say goodbye to poppa.” The blond little boy’s hand curled open and closed pathetically as he waved at the hole in the ground, somehow, at his simple age, he understood the meaning of a box in the ground.

            Svet and her son left in a car Ian didn’t recognize, and he turned back to face the grave, immediately hit in the face with a sharp stab of regret. The cheap headstone was small and shiny, and the fine calligraphy grimaced at him with an evil smile, uttering Mickey’s death date, and screaming his name.

 

When he barged into the Alibi, pissed and without much thought, Kevin was smiling broadly as he wiped the bottom of a gray glass with a dry white rag. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Ian didn’t waste much time, and Kev’s smile was short lived as a shock of confusion spread across his face. “You got Svetlana, fucking _deported_? I mean come the _fuck_ on, what the _fuck_?” Ian threw his hands down and looked to them, hunting an explanation. Veronica came quickly from the back and Kevin spoke in a slow measure.

            “Ian…calm down, she stole our bar, okay? What the fuck were we supposed to do?” Kevin’s brow tangled in a fit of aggravated exclamation. Ian’s nostrils flared in thick aggression. He almost ripped his lip off, biting it and his angry eyes sparkled with hope as he glanced to Veronica.

            “V?” Ian begged. She shook her head as she poured whiskey for a gnarled man with scratchy whiskers.

            “I am not about to get involved in what is clearly the product of some other fucked up shit, anyone else need a drink?” Several hands went up, and V attended them. Her thin brown arms moved like quick spider legs tending the rough men that came to the bar. Ian’s face grew tight and ruddy and he looked to both of them with disgust.

            “Well, I’m glad you got your bar back, I hope it was worth ruining someone’s life.” The door clapped in a loud bang when Ian slammed it, and his legs strode against the ugly sidewalk as fast as they could. He _really_ needed a cigarette.

 

Fiona was cutting celery sticks for Liam, when Ian walked in with shallow breaths and a gentle shut of the door. His walk from the bar had managed to keep the recently amplified burn of irritability contained to a tiny spot, hidden from the externalities of the world, and the doe eyes of Ian’s little brown brother cooled him to a deeper chill. Though, Liam only looked to the red of Ian’s hair for a moment before he resumed his quiet coloring at the kitchen island, kicking his dangling legs against the stool.

            Fiona smiled at him when he reached the kitchen. Chuckling at his attire, Ian was already loosening the boa constrictor of a tie from his neck, saving himself from suffocation. “Nice suit, what’s the occasion?” Ian sighed and answered quietly.

            “Funeral,” he breathed, rubbing his neck in a distracted soothing swirl. He’d never thought he’d have to say the two words in such close relation to each other. “Mickey.”

            “Oh.” Fiona held her breath, dropping the knife onto the cutting board.“Shit, Ian, you should’ve told me the funeral was today, I would’ve gone with ya, I could’ve gave Lip the day off—we could’ve all gone together.” Ian shook his head in dismissal.

            “No, it’s fine, Mandy was there, and Svetlana…what are you doing?” Fiona gave a sorry smile, continuing to snap celery in half with silver steel.

            “Makin’ a snack for Liam, gotta stop by the apartment and Patsy’s check up on everything, and then,” she grinned wide, and dropped the vegetables onto an orange plate. It clattered on the counter when she set it in front of Liam, and he pulled celery strings from the stick when he bit into it.“I got a date.” Ian did as best he could to curve his mouth into something that looked happy for her.

            “Really?” His tone of voice concealed his poor expression and she nodded, enthusiastic. “Good for you.” Ian slid his jacket from his shoulders, and held it over his arm with his wrinkled tie.

            “What are you about to go do?” His dark haired sister rinsed the cutting board and held Ian for another moment, concern laced her features and Ian shrugged.

            “Just…lie down, not feeling so well. Nice coloring, little guy,” Ian mussed Liam’s wiry head of dark curls and clambered up the stairs, shutting the door behind him. He blinked at his bed and dropped his things on the floor, confused as he looked around the room, searching.

 _Searching_ , because something was missing. A part of him was missing. A part of him was missing and the emptiness was beginning to burrow a deep, dark, bloody hole through his chest. Only leaving, phantoms, all around, to frolic about inside it. In the constant flow of grief that drilled at his heart, a wisp of alarm was crawling with sharp claws up his back, because he wasn’t sure if he’d ever find anything to stop the bleeding.

 _It won’t stop, it won’t stop bleeding. I’ll have a raw gap in my chest where Mickey was for the rest of my life._ And as the thought entered Ian’s mind, setting itself in red ink the same color of his blood, something wet rolled along the blush of his cheek.

            Finally. A tear.


	4. MICKEY

_Three Months Before the Call_

           

           The seat next to Mickey was stuffed with thick, cool, angry air. His hands were hard and sweaty against the tough leather of the steering wheel and even though he’d ripped the cheap, nylon wig from his head hours behind the road, his hair was still a tangle of warm, moist itchiness. _Fuck Ian_ , Mickey thought selfishly, _you’re supposed to be fuckin’ here, with me._

           As soon as he’d crossed the border, tears had came in a smooth and silent rush, and once it had dispersed through the swiftness of time, all that was left to move him were bouts of heartbroken bitterness. Tart bitterness and picky anger that battled within his mind and camped inside his chest.

            How the hell was he supposed to feel? Was he supposed to feel happy for him? Happy, when he was the one left at the border cold feet, without a crack to hint at his soon shattered heart? Happy? That he was moving on with his life, without Mickey fucking Milkovich to fuck things up for him? No. He couldn’t be. And even though the contemptuous distortion that corroded him was not at all favorable, it did not keep his heavy heart from sinking.

            Maybe he should have been. Maybe he should have been glad he was moving on with his life, and that things were still going to be great for him in Chicago, and his _boyfriend_ would keep his warm company at night. But feeling that was hard when he knew that the next bed he’d sleep in would either be filled with icy sheets or a cheap prostitute.

            It was past three in the morning when Mickey finally stopped his drive for longer than it took to get gas. Slowing along a strip of restaurants and clustered shopping centers, small mountains of resort hotels rose amongst the short stacks of brick and metal. Though all of the luxurious lights that pooled from each window of the tall, statuesque buildings were brilliant, Mickey could not afford any of them. Instead he opted for a littler, more homely building with a broken neon sign that flickered a generic “El Hotel” above it, right next to something that was easy enough to translate to “twenty four hour check in.”

            The closer he drove toward it, the less significant the place became. Only equipped with enough space to house an approximate forty people at a time, every room offered each their own balcony, though most of them didn’t look sturdy enough to hold more than a dead rat. The rough cake of a building was iced with dark splashes of paint that soiled the scratchy brick.

        Still, it was better he stay at a shitty hotel and spend as little money as possible, than to lavish himself with a million unnecessary intricacies, blowing it on shit he didn’t need. And while it pissed him off that he was using Ian’s cash to pay for his room and his gas, he was limited to its spending power until he could find himself a job.

            He had stopped at the edge of the road somewhere along the way to peel off the feminine disguise that had choked his skin and pressed his lungs, and he wore the same ratty plaid shirt and navy pants he had when he left Chicago as he parked in front of the hotel, shutting the car door behind him. Yellow rays of light shot from the front glass doors and with a loose pull of a thin metal handle, one of them swung open with ease.

           What greeted him was a glare of dark eyes and bronze skin, crowned by a mop of crimson waves. Obviously unnatural, probably something produced by some cheep box dye, though the irony hit Mickey all the same, as he approached the front desk and settled himself in front of the guy. The hard carpet underneath him was red and speckled, and the stairs that led to the second floor were polka dotted worn rubber. _Real shithole_ , Mickey couldn’t help but think as he eyed the brown stain on the ceiling. He shook the distraction from his head, and returned his attention back to the check in guy.

            He looked at him with a lazy, polite smile, and tired eyes. He’d been driving for too long and his legs hurt from the cramped space inside the car. The handsome employee, complete with high cheek bones, pouty lips, and smoldering eyes, spat an annoyed “What?” in Spanish, as he scribbled something into a paper that was rough on the hard wood of the desk. His name tag was black with silver text that read a short and sweet “ENZO” in bold letters.

            “Twenty four hour check in?” Mickey hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but the pitch in his voice made it so. “Uh, my name’s Michael Rick, I need a room.” He didn’t plan on keeping the name forever, it was plastic and bland, and not something he could bear to stay with him, still it would have to work for now. _Not like this Spanish fuck will know what the hell I’m saying_ , _anyway._ Enzo muttered another string of Spanish that Mickey couldn’t comprehend with an angry look in his eye and a swift bout of aggravation on his face. Though, Mick broke his irritated, unintelligible ramblings with exasperation as he slapped enough money to cover the night onto the desk. “I just need a fuckin’ room, okay? Jesus, here’s cash, I need a key. The fuck else would I be here?”

            Enzo shook his head and shoved the hotel card inside Mickey’s hand, shooing him away in something that sounded Hispanic to Mickey’s ears, though the twang to it was something more foreign than Spanish. _Whatever the hell he’s speaking, the prick could be a little more hospitable considering his own damn policy._

            Room 030 was on the second floor and sat at the back of the building, facing the distant shore, with tiny crystal glitters of street and beach lights. Mickey slugged his heavy backpack onto a basket chair near the broad sliding doors that led onto the balcony. The rest of the room was mostly orange and yellow with garlands of flowers painted along the walls. The kitchen was small, and red, quaint, while the bathroom was a mere four walls of porcelain cream and blue, floored with shaggy rugs in front of the sink and shower. He dropped himself onto the edge of the bed, made in a comforter of ugly abstracts, he wiped his hands over his face and folded them at his nose in a stout breath.

            The silence could’ve thrown him into a fit of mad tears. On the road he had the rush of the air and the hum of the motor and the occasional gawk of birds to distract him from his own mind, full with violently painful memory. Now, in the quiet of dark morning and the buzz of insects, that’s all he had to listen to. And all the kisses, touches, and words detangled themselves, and strung through his head. “ _This isn’t me anymore._ ”  Mickey recalled, _The fuck did he even mean_?

            He picked a beer from the bulky bag he’d set on the chair and popped it open with his lighter. The clock on the miniature stove glowed a green _4:30_ _AM_ , and Mickey shook his head. He only had the wind to thank for not passing out on the road, it was a miracle in itself that he hadn’t fainted on the bed as soon as he’d gotten through the door.

            Fizz cooled his lips and he chugged on alcohol by the stove.   _Wonder what that asshole’s doin’ now_ , he thought. Hitch hiking, maybe calling a cab. _How did that fuck plan on gettin_ ’ _back to Chicago_? Mickey wanted to not care about him, but it was like trying not to drown with a cinderblock tied to his ankle, _shithead better not get himself killed._

           And though he knew he would never stop caring about Ian with a passionate beat in his chest, he still was royally pissed. Ian Gallagher knew better than anyone how to break his heart. He had held Mickey’s soul in his hand, placed his feather lips onto it and gave Mickey delicious shivers, before he threw everything that made him Mickey into the ground. The thought he’d never see his stupid grin again was more devastating than anything Mickey had ever felt. It was as though Ian was dead, and his living memory was all he had left to remember him by.

            When he was still in prison, he’d fixed himself inside fantasies of freedom, all that contained a cute redhead with green eyes that shuddered like fresh leaves. And now that part of his fantasy was just that and nothing more. Fantasy. The rest of their lives were rather predictable.

            Ian would go back to Chicago. The cold of winter would bite his nose and turn it red. He’d stay beautiful and make bank as an EMT and settle down with some boring flush faced boy from the Northside. They’d probably get a fuckin’ dog, or worse, adopt a damn kid, live the rest of their lives complaining about their expensive mortgage outside a gorgeous house with white washed fences, wiping their feet on an ugly welcome-mat every time before they entered the door. And they’d die together, old and retired some sixty years down the road, while Mickey stayed some ripened fugitive sitting his ass in Mexico, too gray and ugly for any cops to give a shit about finding him anymore, wading his naked feet in the sand and thinking about what could have been, after whatever piece of ass he’d managed to keep long enough to see him age croaked.

            The picture was grotesque and enough to almost make Mickey spit his beer back into his bottle. Though he forced it down, in a chunky, foul gulp, and undressed himself. Crawling into bed, he set the bottle aside, and let the image scare him slowly to sleep.

 

He didn’t wake until the late afternoon, and it was to a booming knock and an unfamiliar swear that sprung him up from his tough slump. He rubbed his head with his hand and shook the fog from his head. _Who the fuck_? He cursed, and threw himself from his bed, pulling a cigarette from a pack he’d laid on the TV stand. He lit it as he answered the door, and the end sparkled in a burn of orange. It was the desk guy that had greeted Mickey with a dark eyed look of disdain. _Enzo_ , Mickey recalled. He looked no happier now.  

            And no less gorgeous, in his beautifully harsh features. His words rolled from his mouth in smooth streams. “It is five hours past checkout time, you don’t pay more, and you don’t leave. I need more money, or must you go.” Mickey took a slow, mesmerized drag of his cigarette and blinked the grog from his face. “Or you go, do you hear me?”

            “Yeah, yeah alright.” Mickey turned back to face his room, pulling on his pants from the lake of clothes by his bed. He shrugged on a t-shirt while his hand swam through his bag in search of Ian’s stack of pesos, sorting out enough of it to pay for a few nights. As he counted, his eyebrows came fiercely together, flicking his eyes at the cracked door with delayed reaction. Collecting the cash, he crossed the room again and handed the rough paper to Enzo. “You speak English now, huh?” he asked, as Enzo retrieved the layer of crinkles. Mickey blew smoke from his nose.

            “And Portuguese—what I was speaking last night, but as I thought, you were too _stupid_ to tell the difference.” He snatched the cigarette from between Mickey’s teeth and tapped the ash into the carpet. “And no smoking inside, Mr. _Rick_.” He puffed on it, “ _Tchau._ ” Mickey’s mind and mouth fell in annoyance and he watched the guy walk through the halls, sucking on his smoke, his bronze arms swinging at his sides. A mixture of confusion and irritation twisted his thoughts. _The fuck is his problem_?

            Still, it wasn’t just the cherry headed trilingual fuckhead irking his nerves. He was awake now, and the rush of tragedy shook his ankles, and pulled him into the ground. He drew _another_ smoke from the paper pack and lit it on the shaky balcony. The thin cement floor worried him, though he still stood on it with easy feet, stuffed in untied boots. He rested his elbows on the rail and stared at the sun. The crash of waves. The shaky trees. White sands and fruit cocktails. _The beach_. All of it was there in front of him, and still all of it did not include everything he wanted, everything he felt he needed. _Not like it fuckin’ matters, asshole left me, shouldn’t give a shit_ , Mick reckoned. Being angry was easier than trying to pick up the pieces of his broken heart.

            The weather in Mexico was one thing that hadn’t disappointed him. The sun rained on his face, and he drunk in the light, uncomfortable warmth of it. _Fucking Gallagher, probably would’ve liked it here_ , Mickey griped to himself, _his fuckin’ loss._

            Even in the gleam of the sun and the distant view of the beach, dark, gloomy clouds hovered over his head and washed out anything that made him feel even remotely better. As everything came to him in relentless droves of remembrance and sentiment. The punches, the kisses, the hellos and goodbyes, the way he’d looked at him before he left to work. The near silent smack of his lips on his cheek, and the wet taste of their tongues together. He didn’t know if he could ever feel that with someone else. Not when he could still remember everything in hard detail.

            Not when he could still remembered the boy who had ran in his bedroom holding a tire iron in perfect sequence. Or getting caught and pistol whipped, while Ian forcibly watched his own humiliating violation. And he couldn’t forget kissing him in the middle of a strip club, standing in the Alibi to declare his sexuality, the fight that soon followed. How could he not remember having his heart broken? He couldn’t forget any of it. Ian’s red hair, and alabaster skin, dotted with flecks of orange, his small mouth, and his laugh, brash and warm like crackling wood at a camp fire. It was still so vivid in his mind he could almost make out the sound of his voice.

            The thoughts made him smile in heartache and he let the smoke from his cigarette vent from his nostrils. Though, his tiny grin was interrupted by the harsh voice from inside the building. _It ever quiet in this joint_? Mickey thought at the bellowing scream, he could hear the masculine shrieks from outside on the balcony, and at the noise of his words, English, violent, and profound, Mick burst through the sliding glass door and flung open the one that led to the hall.

            A fat white tourist with a thick Texan accent was screaming at a small Hispanic girl with long legs and white teeth, scared and shaking, a sprinkle of red shot her cheeks, and rosied her face. “You stupid cock suckin’ bitch, what the hell did you goddamn expect?” The redness in her skin was only due to exclusively her fear for a moment, before it was shaped by the man’s meaty paw, which he went to slam onto her face again, before Mickey jerked in front of the tiny, petite girl, and shielded her frailty from the hit. It crashed on Mickey’s face, and he stumbled back, rubbing the sore of his jaw before he landed one on the man’s stubbly skin. The Texan went to hit him again, but Mickey dodged, pounding his fist in the man’s gut, he slammed him against the wall, and gritted his teeth at the fleshy piece of white trash.

            “Don’t gotta lotta respect for people hittin’ on girls.” Mickey grunted and reaffirmed his slam, forcing the guy further into the wall. “Now get the fuck out, before I hit on you more than I have to.” Mickey gave a final punch as a signature and blood fell from the man’s chunky nose. The blubbery southerner held it as he ran out of the building, and the girl smiled at Mickey shyly.

            “Thank you, _señor_ ,” Her accent was thick and sexy and Mickey smiled at her briefly. “He is bad man, but I think you are good.” Mickey nodded, saying a low, “no problem, thanks for saying that,” though his words slowly decreased in volume at sight of the cocky Latino asshole, leaning against the wall staring at him. He was chewing on a red coffee stirrer and his dark, brick hair swept across his head in a quick brush stroke. The smirk on his face was one of the most fueling things Mickey had ever seen. The little lady looked behind her to see what Mickey was looking at and chuckled. “He is work here, _si_?” Mickey nodded.

            “Yeah, yeah, he fuckin’ works here all right. I’ll see ya round, okay, stay away from that piece of shit.” She gave another flash of pearl teeth and left out of the exit near the end of the hall. Mickey stomped toward Enzo with agitated eyes and dropped his hands at his side. “Dude, I think it’s about time you tell me what the fuck your problem is, ‘cause I really don’t have time for this sort of pissed off, I-hate-Americans bullshit you keep pullin’ on me. The fuck did I ever do to you?” Enzo chuckled, and removed the red straw from between his teeth, wrinkled and dented with bite marks.

            “You came into my hotel, like a self entitled prick, that didn’t have to speak Spanish even though he is Mexico.” Enzo sighed and hugged himself, “But, I do think what you did was nice for her.” Mickey knew not what to say, as the insult was followed by some sort of admiration and pride in him, neither which he received very often.

            “Well, were you gonna let that asshole beat the shit outta her?” Enzo tilted his head side to side and smiled broadly. His smile was almost as bright as the leggy girl’s.

            “No, but I figure, you will, since you got here before me, and since, well, it is in your nature.” Mickey blinked at him and shrugged.

            “The fuck is’at supposed ta mean?” Enzo put the stirrer back between his teeth and kept chewing on it, creasing the wrinkled end so much, Mickey thought it might dissolve inside his mouth. He laid a lightly calloused hand on Mickey’s shoulder and glowed with conceit and knowingness. _The hell does he act like he knows everything for_? Thought Mickey before Enzo leaned into whisper something into his shoulder, the heat of his voice creeping on Mickey’s ear, husky and dark. What he said sent a nervous and threatened shiver down his spine.

            “I know who you are, Mr. _Milkovich_.” 

           


	5. MICKEY

            Mickey’s heart made wild thumps inside his chest, and the air by the kitchen skipped around in his lungs. _How the fuck could he know_? He held onto the edge of the counter, in a wobbly attempt to keep himself upright. Kissing the end of his beer bottle, he finished it in a single gulp, before he ran to the balcony in a rage, throwing it onto the hard ground beneath him. It shattered in a splat of broken glass and he could hear the shards ring on the rock floor. He hadn’t yet been there a week and someone already knew who the hell he was.

            Closing his eyes, he did his best to calm himself as he shoved a cigarette between his teeth and held a lighter to it until the white end flicked red. _They ain’t got this shit on the News do they_? He zapped the TV on and flipped through a small thicket of channels until he reached the first News station he could find. His eyes fixated on the female newscaster as he took a deep breath of smoke.

            She spoke in quick purrs of Spanish while pictures of a local tragedy sat by her head. He couldn’t make out any of the banners that pulled along the bottom of the screen, but he knew his own name well enough to see that it wasn’t anywhere in the small scroll of stories, as well as any of the thick headlines. _Then how the fuck did he find out_?

            They could have only had some sort of flash alert, a small break of news that only mentioned him for a few short moments, before stories of greater importance resumed. Still, the chances of him knowing—or better yet, remembering his last name were uncomfortably scarce. _And why that arrogant fuck of all else?_ No one else knew who he was. Not even the fat Texan, a man from his own country, had recognized him. Just Enzo. _Why_?

            He couldn’t be some sort of undercover cop, or detective. They would’ve arrested him on the spot, tossed him in a rusted cell and threw away the key. He didn’t exactly look like someone working in the legal system anyways. Most of the time he dressed in a dark t-shirt and crisp jeans, with boots too rough to care about. _Maybe Damon knew the guy_ , he considered, _or Carlos_. Considering how much he and Carlos talked in prison, it wouldn’t be impossible that he’d written one of his homies in Mexico and happened to mention Mickey by name. _Still wouldn’t explain how the hell he put the face to the name_ , _or why he’d act all fuckin’ cryptic about it. How_?

           Mickey didn’t know how. In the initial moment, when he could feel his hot breath on his ear, and see the crazy, sarcastic, smug look on his face, Mickey hadn’t said anything. The words had caught themselves in the barbed wire of his throat, and he let Enzo walk away in sleek, slinky strides. And he, in bouts of panic and fear, had locked himself in his room, with an insatiable paranoia that soon enough the Mexican police were about to bust down his door and hold him in extradition to the Federal Government of the United States. But none of that had happened, and he was left with his hand in his pants, trying to piece together how that prick had found out about him. _How_? He planned on finding out.

           He fell into the chair by the sliding doors and pulled his loose shoelaces tight enough to strangle his ankles. Throwing them into quick knots, he shoved the plastic hotel key inside his pocket with a pack of smokes before bursting through the room door and slamming it in a drum of wood. He descended the rubber set of stairs in clunky steps. Catching the small glimpse Enzo swung his way, while he spun weaves of Spanish to a squat, hairy man that was checking out of the hotel.

            They said polite and casual goodbyes, as the man’s fuzzy hand opened the glass front door and closed it softly shut. Mickey’s elbows were flat on the counter as soon as he was gone and he leaned in closely to whisper in a low, frantic, demanding voice. “Okay, fuck face, you’re gonna tell me how the hell you know my name, and you’re gonna tell me right fuckin’ now.” Enzo’s pouty lips spread into another wide smile, as he wrote something in a thick binder, crossing the space behind the desk, he squatted down and fiddled with something underneath it. When he stood, a similar grin still licked his lips, and he threw a black backpack across a red sleeved shoulder. Mickey bit his lip in aggravation, still staring at Enzo from across the table.

            “What?” He spat. His oak eyes dilated in exasperation and he dropped a hand to his side like an angry adolescent.

            “How the fuck did you know?” Mickey insisted, his voice grew as low and aggressive as a wolf’s growl, though Enzo only seemed bored at Mickey’s attempts of intimidation. Taking a lazy breath, he shrugged on his other strap.

            “I’m on break now,” he excused, as an angry middle aged woman with thick brows and a sweet mole sat behind the desk in Enzo’s place. Her arms flapped like wings when she moved them, and the folds of skin at her neck shook. “You can take any questions you have up to _Rosa_ ,” he gestured to her. Taking a languid walk through the end of the hallway he exited out of a heavy door that banged in a metallic shriek when it closed. Mickey released an angry breath and followed. _Dickhead loves bein’ dramatic, don’t he_?

            He felt like sweating the second he took a step into the moist heat, dark and toasty in the sunset, though Enzo seemed comfortable in it as he stood at the corner of the building, lighting up in front of olive dumpsters and piles of plastic. The skunk smell of weed hit Mick’s nose and he swiped the joint from him as fast as he lit it.  Breathing a heavy drag, he let the burn of it run from his lips. “A’ight Lucy, start ‘splainin’.”

            “ _Caralho_ ,” he swore and snatched it back as soon as Mickey was done with it. _Like he’s got a place to get angry, takin’ my cigarette and shit._ “I’ve had a bad day, Captain America, better you do not test me.”

            “Jesus, asshole, just tell me how the fuck you know my name.” Enzo gave a glare of amber eyes, his eyelashes fluttering in the wind. He took one last smoke from the joint, before he stomped it into the black asphalt.

            “You’re a fugitive.” Mickey scoffed at the sky and crossed his arms.

            “Uh huh, thanks for the news flash, now how the hell’d you figure me out?” Enzo’s hair looked like dark brass in the sun, and his skin gleamed a light brown.

            “Internet.” He said in a single breath. Mickey creased his brow, and jerked his head back in confusion. _Internet_? _How the hell he find me on the internet_? More importantly, Mickey wondered, Why _did he find me on the internet_?

            “Oh,” Was all he could manage. There was a stark coolness about him that Mickey somehow let intimidate him. His suave prowess, along with those catlike eyes. It was unnerving, and while he wanted so much to ask why the hell, and how the hell, he’d found him online, he kept his mouth shut, and kept it as humble as he could manage. “Look, man, I don’t really give a shit, the hell you know, as long as you ain’t gonna nark.” A smirk crept along Enzo’s face, and Mickey stood unsettled against the scratch of brick. _The fuck does that smile mean_?

            “I can’t,” he took a huge gulp of air and held it for a moment, “I’m on the run too.”

            “Wha—” Mickey was lost. The sun was making him dizzy and the noise of near birds quieted him, as the words flew from Enzo’s mouth and floated on the breeze. His brain was frozen for a moment, and he stared into his sea of red waves. “—you’re on the run?” His voice hinted disbelief and he waited intently for an answer. _Jesus, what are the fuckin’ odds_?

            “Yes, it’s how I know you, I have to check up on wanted lists, for updates, you’re new to America’s database, so you showed up quickly.” _Fuck._ The chances he’d ever meet another fugitive, in the first couple days of him being there hadn’t seemed so probable. And, still here, was on-the-run-Enzo, sashaying around with model cheekbones and a quick, cynical grin, that fired up his heated red locks.  Mickey wasn’t one to believe in synchronicities of the universe. He never could notice when the past was falling into the future, or when two coincidences were undeniably uncanny. _This, though_ , he thought, _this is some other shit._

            “You wanted in the States?” Mickey finally pushed out after gawking into the small wind. _The fuck was he doin’ lookin’ up America’s most wanted, for_?

            Enzo’s eyes were clean as much as they were dirty. His sugary lips and soft black stubble was too good to be true. _Got secrets_ , Mickey thought, _a lot of ‘em, I bet._ Ian may have not had very many secrets, but he had issues. And secrets were issues themselves, and Mickey couldn’t ever seem to find someone without some sort of issue. Not that Enzo reminded him anything of Ian, red hair aside.

            “I’m wanted everywhere, gringo.” Mickey settled into their shared secret and let his body relax in the warm air. It was a lot easier talking to the guy now that he knew they were in the same, sorry boat, floating along, a stiff, stormy stream that was sad and made from times of sweat and times of tears.

            “Jesus, what’d you do?” He pried. Enzo licked his lips.

            “Long story, mostly drug trade throughout the Americas, though. Database says you are for attempted murder.” He looked at him coyly, and Mickey pursed his lips in consideration. The offense sounded so well, _offensive._ He hadn’t meant to kill Sammy, in actuality, not that drugging her up to torture her was much better. But, the way things had went down, and who he had went down for wasn’t all so bad. Though the charge alone was domineering in Enzo’s velvet accent, deep and dark.

            “That’s a long story too.” Enzo weighed his words in a considerate bob of his head.

            “Everything worth hearing is.” Mickey smiled at that, _for a guy that don’t speak English well, got a damn good way with words._ “You ever actually killed someone?” Mickey shook his head and yawned. He’d slept all day and still he felt tired. It may have been Enzo’s previous mind games wearing him out, the constant beat of sun in his face, or the other man he often thought of with similar flaming hair that haunted him like a wispy ghost in the hot air of Mexico.

            “Nah, man, just talk a lot of shit,” he hesitated before he continued, “watched my dad though, made us help get rid of the body parts, back when I was eight or somethin’. All chopped up and shit, fuckin’ awful man.”

            He didn’t know why he’d said it. The story had spilled from him before he could think, and he couldn’t tell if he regretted it or not. He hadn’t told that to anyone. Not even Ian. His brothers and he were the only ones who knew, and that was because they were all there too, tiny elementary school kids, getting smiley faces on progress folders, and coloring in pictures of _Clifford the Big Red Dog_ after school. Right before their dad chopped up some money loaner’s dead body, in thick red, pieces, that fit together in a fleshy puzzle of blood puddles and bits of skin.

            “Come on kids; just lift some this up for daddy, now.” He’d said in a low, grumbling voice, “Mickey, drag his leg over this way.” Mickey hadn’t been alive for long when it’d happened, but he’d been there long enough to know that pissing off Terry was never a good idea. He could remember the way the skin felt in his tiny palm. Hairy, and cooling, though the leg had still been dripping lukewarm beads of crimson when they dropped it in the hole near Lake Michigan. He could still smell the life that was once there as his father spread dirt over the grave.

            “Damn.” Enzo spoke, flat and detached. Even just listening to the short version still could paint visceral portraits of the event. _Guess not a lot of people like hearin’ that shit every day_ , Mickey thought, considering the pitiful look on Enzo’s face. “What shitty American town are you from?” Mickey couldn’t help but to chuckle at that, laughing even more as he saw Enzo give his first smile that wasn’t sarcastic.

            “Chicago.” Mickey blinked into the sunlight, and glanced at him, pretty and brown, they stared off into the nothingness together. “You from around here?” Enzo shook his head fiercely, almost insulted by the question.

            “No, no, I’ve been to _America_ , more than I have here. I’m from Brazil, but I went back and forth there and California, Spanish was the last language I learned.” Mickey nodded, understandingly and picked a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. Enzo lit it for him, and they took turns puffing on it. “If you need to learn, I could teach you.” Mickey eyed him up and down, and wondered for a moment if he meant more to that than what he’d said. “But, that’s _all_ I’d be teaching, I have a boyfriend.” Enzo quirked an eyebrow and gave a stupid grin, Mickey could’ve slapped off his face. _Is there anything he doesn’t already fuckin’ know about me_?

            “The fuck made you assume I’d be into that?” His mind was telepathic, or it must’ve been, peeking into Mickey’s life, and grasping every little thing it could find about him, digging for Mickey’s past, and analyzing his soul in careful pentameter. He could read people like most could read books.

“Nothing, but today there was a hot little Latina in front of you that you only noticed for a second before your eyes were on me.” Mickey bore a sarcastic glare deep into Enzo and he shook his head, distaste wielding with strange admiration.

            “Smart guy, huh?” He quipped and let smoke drain from his lungs.

            Enzo shrugged, “I notice things…you, do you have a boyfriend?” The question was as innocent as could be, and still it shoved piles of depression inside Mickey’s already brimming heart. He answered the question in a quick defensive force of a word that cut the air in skinny strikes.

            “ _No._ ” Curiosity grew in Enzo’s elegant face and the smile that ran along his cheeks was with amusement and exasperation.

            “What happened?” Mickey didn’t answer. “Did he cheat on you?” Mickey didn’t answer. “What _did_ he do?” Mickey took a deep breath and gnawed on the inside of his lip. _Course he gotta ask all the wrong fuckin’ questions_ , Mickey swore, _nosy fucker._ Not that it wasn’t in the course of human history that people questioned things, and sought answers, usually more to more than the petulant affairs of a Chicago gangster, still Mickey found the feeling of Enzo’s pries like that of a hundred Spartans poking their swords in his sides.

            “Left me at the Mexican border.” He spoke in a husk of under-breath. Enzo even seemed overwhelmed with surprise at that. _Yeah, retard, hit me right between my two damn eyes._

            “Shit, I’m sorry.” He cut the fat tension with a hot knife, and Mickey could’ve released a deep gasp of relief as he directed the subject back to himself. “My boyfriend, Marcello, he is still in Brazil. We write sometime. A lot, actually. But, I miss him too much. I plan on going back soon.” His face was spirit worn, and split with grief. _Hell,_ Mickey thought, staring at the hurt in his face, _hope that ain’t me cryin’ over Gallagher in a few months._ He could only shoot a death glare at the dumpster to wring out all the denial from his sore mind. _You know it will be, asswipe._

            “How the fuck you plan on goin’ back to a country you’re wanted in?” Mickey finally broke, dissociating from whatever bit of emotion was about to shake his back and rip the hair from his head. He knew going back to Chicago was not at all an option, and still, Enzo showed his teeth, shiny and thin looking, like shaved candle wax. He shrugged, and took a breath from the cigarette.

            “They can’t arrest a dead man can they?”


	6. MICKEY

            The next few days were spent similarly, letting the sun burn their skin, as they sipped cool beer and bonded over a joint. Enzo would spin silk words of home, and webs of stories that wrapped around the quiet of the wind. He spoke with so much detail that Mickey often found himself nearly smelling the Brazilian air. He would do his best to return with his own accounts of Chicago, though Enzo filled most of the silence. And Mickey had no problem with that. Everything that crossed his mind had to do with Ian, and talking about that prick of freckled fire only wrecked him even more than he was already.

            The way his voice had split the wind on the edge of Texas had crumbled Mickey’s insides to dust. And he could not help the violently constant replay of the memory. The worst part was knowing that there was nothing he could’ve said or done to make him change his mind, to make him think twice, start the car and drive off with him. There was nothing he could’ve done to make Ian want him. _And if there was, hell if I know what the fuck it might be._ It was the constant flow of thoughts that bustled his mind and slowly chipped away the little resilience he had left. It was ruining him and he could not control the damage

            And so he let Enzo talk, and at least distract him from it. He was good at talking to, and Mickey often felt mocked by the copper, Brazilian curls that twisted in the breeze, and the strings of articulate language he strung from his accented tongue. His mind was like a harp. He talked in constant poetry, not always with his words, but with his passion, with his purpose, and all his profession of philosophy and human nature. _Ain’t ever heard anybody talk like him_ , Mickey thought, _at least, not anybody that didn’t just step out of some old movie._

            He sung pretty words of the “softness” of love, the way it was like a bed of soft prickles that itched and bit skin, as much as it warmed and comforted it. His philosophy was a potent mix of fervor and destruction, and most of it was shaped around his boyfriend, his _lover_ , as he so often called him. Marcello.

            _Marcello_. Mickey had heard the name at least a hundred times since he and Enzo had talked behind the hotel. Their love was dangerous. An obsessive sort of love, a magnetic and lethal attraction, the north and south mixed together. A beautiful disaster that crushed anything that challenged it. Enzo had made it clear that they would take a bullet for each other.

           Mickey would’ve liked to gush similarly about Ian. He would’ve talked of his mirrored infatuation, and the insatiable craving they held for each other. _Would’ve been true a while ago._ But a while ago was not now, it was years behind him, and Mickey couldn’t allow himself to sit through those memories again. And so he let Enzo go on about Marcello for as long he liked, and sift through pictures of him on an iPhone with a shattered screen. He was just as stunning as Enzo was.

            He had darker skin, and a short, close cropped head of dark hair. His cheekbones were just as glamorous as his boyfriend’s. He had a small, shy smile, and arms built with thick ropes of muscle. His eyes were a yellowy, honey, delicious color of brown. Sweet, and with a strange hint of innocence. Mickey could’ve stared at them with hours, which may have seemed strange, but with how much Enzo had talked about him, he’d almost felt as though he knew the guy. And he could feel with a connected essence, and a surplus of experience, Enzo’s longing to get back to him as soon as possible. _Bein’ locked up for a year, can make ya wanna see people you actually give a shit about_ , Mickey thought dully, _even if they don’t give a shit about you._

           They wrote to each other all the time, and often when Enzo would talk to Mickey, he’d talk with a pen in his hand, and crisp paper on his lap, writing in messy strips of Portuguese, the same poetry he so often spoke. _Probably sounds even better in his own language._

           Enzo never took the risk of calling him. He was cautious and calculated, and Mickey could tell with the way he talked, he’d been moving for longer than Mick dared to ask. All of it was second nature to him, so much that it shoved flutters in Mickey’s belly that flew with worry wings about his own future. He didn’t have a choice in turning back now, not unless he wanted to serve twenty five years instead of fifteen, but he wasn’t so sure if the glimpses into the nomadic life of a fugitive were extraordinarily better. Especially when home felt so nice. Even though Chicago plucked the hairs from his skin, and ran fingers of snow along his back in the winter, it was home. And home was always nice. Hell, Enzo made it seem like Brazil was heaven on Earth.

            The apartment he talked about was little and cute, with a small rent put towards it, as Enzo had invested most of his mountainous drug money on a silvery, shiny collection of cars that Mickey could tell he tried hard not to boast too much about. He wanted nothing more than to get back to that. But he couldn’t yet. He planned on dropping by to kiss his Marcello, and hand him a wad of cash, before he fled to another country where he could finally employ his master plan of faking his death, so he could return to his sweet Brazil for good, but as he constantly told Mickey, _it will take time._

            “How the hell you plan on doin’ that anyway?” Mickey smoked on his roll of tobacco, and fidgeted on the bench beneath them, the heat of it was nearly burning his ass off. Enzo creased his brow together and shrugged, taking a hit from his own joint. They sat near the shore, where the salt in the air tickled the inside of Mickey’s nose.

            “How do I plan on doing what?” Mickey thought what he was talking about was clear, and he took an impatient, clarifying puff.

            “How you plan on fakin’ your death or whatever?” Enzo gave his signature sly smile and bit the end of his smoke, letting white clouds drain from his mouth.

            “I have this plan for a while now. But, it involves a lot, several ways I could do it. I’ve done it for others, but never myself.” Mickey nodded. It’s not that he was _dying_ to go back to Chicago. Mexico was nice. It was warm, and it was breezy, and everywhere he turned his head was full with color, and culture, and he only had to walk a little ways from the hotel and he was on the beach. There was a reason so many Americans summered there, but if he was given a second shot at life, because the old him was dead, and he could return to the city he grew up in, where everything was familiar, and the people spoke the same language he did, he wouldn’t have much to complain about. _Be nice to be in the fuckin’ cold again, might forget what it feels like, livin’ here._

            Mickey lost himself inside his mind, and all he could manage was an interested, “Hmph,” followed by a squint at the sun shined shore. A big breasted woman with onyx hair down to her ass bounced a volley ball on her fist, and knocked it across a white, knotted net. A warm skinned blond guy with skinny arms caught it with a brilliant smile. _Everyone’s so fuckin’ happy here_ , Mickey thought, _not hard to see why._

            The ocean water glittered with white diamonds, and the mushy sand was like silk through his fingers, sending pleasured goose bumps along Mickey’s skin. It was utopic. It was everything he’d wanted, everything he’d imagined, _but it still don’t feel right._ Mickey hated the idea of hanging onto someone that he felt had destroyed him, but he couldn’t help it. _I can’t get him out of my damn head._ It was a surprise his angst hadn’t already pulled him into the shimmering sea to drown him in it.

            “Why?” Enzo’s gaze greeted him along with the word, and Mickey internally thanked him for breaking the pattern of his thoughts, circling around his hellish heartbreak. His looks were so intense. Dark eyes, and gaunt bones, he always stared with a panther’s gleam, wise, and careful, observing, ready to pounce. “Do you want me to help you?” Mickey shook his head.

            “Nah,” he said, and then wiggled his mouth around in slow, considerate wags, “maybe.” He looked around the beach and then back into his cat eyes. “You think you could do it?” Enzo smiled.

            “I could, I need to leave here anyway, I’ve been too long, and the hotel is so broken, I need to see the streets of Brazil again.” He spooned a small smile and Mickey eyed him curiously.

            “How much would it cost me?” He didn’t know if he could do it, he didn’t know if he wanted to, or if he could even pull it off. _Probably won’t do shit,_ Mickey knew, _but don’t hurt to think about it._

            “Depends. For, well, I already know, how I’d do for you, two birds with one rock, So, I’d only ask about, two thousand pesos—or three hundred _reais—or one hundred American dollars_.” Mickey chuckled.

            “Wise guy knows his money, huh? Good for you.” Enzo dropped a shoulder.

            “Only the places I have been.” Mick nodded and then gave him a coarse look. _Only a hundred bucks to fake someone’s fuckin’ death_?

            “The fuck you chargin’ so little for, some sorta fine print, I ain’t catchin’?” Mickey hadn’t met many people that offered to help someone fake their death, and for some, _strange_ reason he thought he would’ve asked more of him. The brown Brazilian shook his head and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

            “No, I say, only for you, because you are—if I killed, you off, so I speak, I’d just burn the hotel down, and since I work at, the small shaky building, I would get the insurance.” Mickey nodded, he didn’t exactly get the correlation between him faking his death, and he wanting to burn the hotel down, but he didn’t care enough to ask. “You want to? You know there is no going back.”

            “Yeah, yeah I get that, I been got that, ever since I bust outta fuckin’ prison.” His options had never been broad, and the more his life changed, all the more narrow they became. There was no going back, in reality, there had never really been a going back for Mickey, his entire life he hadn’t been granted the option, and while breaking out of prison had only made going back near impossible, it was nothing he wasn’t already accustomed to.

            “So, I do it for you then?” Enzo asked, his features stressed and waiting for an answer.

            “Be nice to clear my name, but fuck if I know what the hell I’d do. I don’t know man, seems like a bitch of a lotta work too.” Enzo nodded, smiling his Enzo smile.

            “Yes, it is. Just think about it,” he took a deep breath and looked to Mickey, already exasperated, though the reason for his edginess was yet to come. “All right, we work on your Spanish now.” Mickey winced.

           They’d been practicing little by little throughout the days they’d spent together, but he was horrible and learning a language was harder than he’d anticipated, it was so intricate, and Enzo made it worse with all the grammar nuances he was trying to teach him along the way. He was losing his patience fast. And as much as he wanted to say “fuck it” and give up trying, in fear of tumbling his tongue out of his mouth, he sighed, and forced himself to continue, he wasn’t so _stupid_ , as Enzo had declared, to stop learning Spanish in a country that only spoke Spanish.

            Still, it did not change the fact that after the hour Enzo had took, trying to explain conjugation in hard detail, Mickey still felt shorthanded and just as simple. His lessons only reinforced the great degree to how unequipped he was in living there. He hardly had anything material to his name, not even the proper skills to communicate.

            “You need to try harder, stop being so frustrated.” Enzo scolded in a gruff, hypocritically aggravated voice. Mickey rolled his eyes.

           “ _Necesito trabado._ That’s what I fuckin’ need.” Mickey stressed. Enzo looked confused and sucked on his cigarette a moment before he spoke.

           “Yes, _trabajo,_ ” he corrected casually, “you can work at the hotel.” Mickey eyed him wondrously. Enzo hadn’t failed to fulfill any of his promises in the short time he’d known him. _Asshole won’t let up on this damn Spanish class._

           “You could do that?” Mickey breathed. Enzo scrunched his eyes, impatient, and annoyed.

          “I own it, I can do whatever I want.” Mickey gawked at him. _A little young to own a goddamn hotel._ He couldn’t have been more than six or seven years older than Mickey. And in Mexico? A country he’d hardly lived in? _Probably one of his fuckin’ secrets_ , Mickey guessed, _can’t tell what any of them are, but I can smell him hiding some serious shit._

            “You know, with Marcello, on a day like this, we would play this, sunny game,” he begun, and Mickey leaned into the back of the bench, comforting himself. One of his stories was creeping the air. Not that it bothered him, but Enzo’s reveries were long as novelettes and left lasted bits of Brazilian memories on Mickey’s shoulders. “We made it up, when we were smaller, and younger, like um, what do you call, the dangerous—Russian roulette, like Russian roulette, we would just, you know, look, with eyes as bright as the sun, around the beach, or the street, wherever we were, find a man, or woman, that looks very well dressed and fine, made up, and pampered and powdered. Someone who looks like he has a lot of money. Then, we choose who to distract him, well, no distract, but divert him, down a different path. And one of us would pick from his pocket, and then the other of us would run, off, one way very obviously, and they would chase the other one, thinking that _they_  had whatever we took, even though, the other one, that did not run, had it. The one that makes the diversion would take care of him, get him off our backs, then we meet by—wherever small spot we choose to go, and we look at what the other one took together.” His eyes were lost in the blue of the sky, and Mickey gazed at it, though he did not see into whatever dream Enzo was dreaming.

            He didn’t get it. He didn’t get how he could just sit and day dream, and wait, and wish, and wonder. _Probably like how I did, back in prison._ But, Enzo wasn’t in prison, he had a world of people, and flicks of cities and fun, and money, but he seemed to only dream of the epitome of perfection, and utter flawlessness, _Marcello_ , who he saw as some supreme being from on high. _Not that I’d think any less of goddamn Gallagher, if I wasn’t so pissed at him._

            “Don’t sound like a game, so much as an interesting way to get arrested.” Enzo’s teeth shined in the light and his eyes were lit with mischief, a spark that twinkled and danced in the gleam of his warm skin, Mickey recognized the quip on his face, and shook his head.“I ain’t doin’ that shit.”

            “Don’t be a pussy,” Enzo challenged, “come on, I’ll be distraction, just take from his pocket, and run, is easy.” He was already standing from the bench, surveying the area, with intent and determine laden features.

            A plunder of tourists stayed toward the left side of the beach, closer to a large resort with piles of red shingles and white stone that guarded a pool larger than a baseball field. At least seven stories high, the balconies that hung from the building were not the same crumbling cement at the hotel. They were thick with ivory stone, draped in a tangle of leaves and curly vinery. The back of it locked arches with the beach, caging a patio of sandstone floors, patterned by umbrella topped tables and soft floral lounge chairs. Wealthy foreigners laughed and listened to music, whilst sipping on white wine and picking flaky crab from hot dishes.

           Not far from the patio, a tall man with square fingers stood in a business casual, dark blue collar shirt and khakis, fit with boat shoes the same color as the sand. He had a goofy smile, though his face was hard as stone. He was taking a collection of pictures of his family with a camera that looked worth around eight hundred dollars.  His wife and children sat in a circle on the ground, soiling themselves in the white grain, they smiled in the direction of the lens. His face was naturally angry, and he didn’t look like someone to be messed with. Enzo’s eyes were locked on him, and Mickey could feel the bile rising in his throat. “That guy.”

           Mickey swallowed and sighed, crossing his arms as he stared at him, he stood next to Enzo, and they watched him shoo one of the children back in camera view with a chortling smile. “How I know you ain’t gonna run off, while that fuck face chases after me and gets me sent to rot in a Mexican prison for the resta my damn life?” Enzo recoiled, mouth agape, as though he’d been terribly hurt, a visage of pain twisted his pretty features. He looked with artificial disbelief, and gave slight shakes of his head.

            “I thought you trust me, after I just talk about helping you disappear, offer a job, we’ve been working on the language. I thought you would know by now…” Mickey smacked his lips in annoyed delight.

            “A’ight, a’ight, don’t’ be all fuckin’ dramatic.” Enzo touched his tongue to his top teeth in a quick flash of self-satisfied excitement.

“Just go, take whatever is in his pockets, and run, I’ll take care of him, do not worry.” Mickey dragged on his cigarette, and held the smoke in his lungs

            “What if it’s nothin’ but some change and a gum wrapper?” He talked with the shortness of holding his breath, and released the streams of smoke from his nose and mouth. Enzo’s eyes lit like the sun, and he split into a bright smile. Too happy for his own good.

            “Tha’s why it is like Russian roulette, win or lose, my friend, you do not know for what it was worth. Now go, I won’t say again.” Mickey took a deep breath and ground his cigarette into the back of the bench. _Don’t see the fuckin’ point in this shit,_ Mickey’s boots lapped sand from the ground as he walked toward him, _guess I’m doin’ it anyway._

            Enzo followed closely behind, and as Mickey, with a vibrating chest, lightly touched his fingers, stained with tattoo ink, inside the man’s cool pocket, and pulled fat leather from the smoothness of it, all in a quick, soft motion, Enzo was the one that ran first, shooting like glaring ammunition through the resort patio, and zigzagging through the maze of beach tables. Mickey stood, his mouth, falling a little open, as the tall man ran after Enzo. _Hope he ain’t plannin’ on catching him_. Enzo was a fast snake, slithering through the obstacles of the resort and into the street with obnoxious strikes, while the man they’d robbed ran with heavy, tall, feet and the tired motions of age. He circled around, for a moment, to yell a quick, “by the corner store!”

           And at his words, pulling Mickey from the lethargy of his trance, he dashed from the beach once Enzo had played the mouse, and ran back and away from him. Fighting the pedestrians that filled the bustling, hot streets of Mexico, Mickey pushed through crowds of women standing in front of boutiques, and men coming from shops and grocery stores. His short legs hurdled over a spilled cup of ice cream, and as his eyes ran behind him, making sure he hadn’t stepped over the little boy’s hand that had fell and splattered the sticky vanilla mess all over the cement, he saw the man chase Enzo between two dark buildings that raised above the rest, fat twin towers with squares of golden windows. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

          He flew from the leveled sidewalk and into a paved ditch, sandwiched between a white painted cinderblock wall and the ratty gas station, he assumed Enzo had been talking about. He leaned on the cool white of the stone, shaded by the uneven roof of the convenience store. He tried his best to breathe and lay low. And then he laughed. _Somethin’ me and Gallagher mighta done,_ he thought, _back in the day_. He immediately regretted it, and felt heaps of disappointment punch his guts.

 _If he were just here, just fuckin’ here_. All he’d wanted was to see him, was to be with him, and touch his hand, and stroke his red hair, and spend time breaking beds and drinking cool margaritas on hot days. _But_ , _that shit ain’t realistic, life ain’t no damn fairytale._ He’d known that since he was a child and his tiny nails had scraped against coarse hair on a dead man’s leg. But some hopeful, dream boy part of him, he hadn’t known existed until he met Ian, thought for once he might’ve actually gotten a break.

           He’d done all he could’ve tried to do. He tried rising from the shotty drug operations his father had led him to do when he was growing up, as well as his disrupted attempt at running a brothel. And while what he did, leading up to his arrest, hadn’t been much of an improvement, he thought things were changing for the better. But they weren’t changing. And he felt stupid to have ever thought things might work out for him. He was a _Milkovich,_ of course he couldn’t have amounted to anything.

 _Milkovich._ He hated the name. It carried some evil specter, some curse that his life was destined to be nothing but shit, a solemn hex that worked as a constant impediment to whatever good he tried to do. Whatever justice he tried to engage, whatever wrong he tried right would only worsen the course of his life. _A Milkovich is just supposed accept his place at the bottom of the fuckin’ food chain, and if he’s good enough, rise to be the king of goddamn rats._ But, he couldn’t be so wrong as to completely blame the reason he was where he was on the course of the universe and his family name.

            He’d made his fair share of mistakes too. And he was more than aware that a lot of it was his fault. If he hadn’t ever done something so stupid as to get himself locked up, who knows where the hell he would’ve been. He knew he wouldn’t have become a lawyer or a doctor, anything like that, but maybe he would’ve still—at least had something that made him feel worth a little more than Milkovich scum. He still might’ve had Ian. They might’ve patched things up eventually. He had faith in that. _But thinkin’ on shit from the past ain’t gonna change nothin’._

            Enzo ran down the steep slope of black pavement and met Mickey in the skinny alley. Smiling like an idiot, Mickey perked himself from his melancholy daze, and Enzo cackled in the shade, holding onto his sides. “That was good,” he declared and gestured to the heavy wallet Mickey held. “What’s in?”

            Mickey unfolded it and fingered through its contents, the usual, credit cards, family portraits, and a good amount of cash, which they split evenly and shoved in their pockets, standing in the shade until Enzo could calm his fuming breath.

            When they climbed from the vagueness of the street nook, he dropped the wallet inside an empty trash bin outside of the gas station that made the plump leather dribble in a noisy thump. Mickey did his best to conceal the unbidden flinch that twitched the side of his mouth upward. _Never liked loud noises_ , at least ones that he wasn’t creating. And though he had succeeded at showing any signs the sound had distressed his sensitive brain, he could not stifle the look of repulsion on his face at the gleam of Enzo’s blood drenched hand. He’d been blind to the red painting on his palm in the dark of the alley, though now it screamed from his skin and Mickey eyed him suspiciously, more so, when Enzo pulled a knife from his pocket, and began to clean it with the black of his shirt.

            “The fuck did you do?” Though the blood on his hands made it pretty clear, he still bothered to ask. Enzo gave him a look that asked him why he was asking, and Mickey tilted his head, his heart spasming in a miniature panic. “You didn’t kill the guy, did you?” Enzo answered as though it was matter-of-fact, and the look in his eye shot shivers that stroked Mickey the wrong way.

            “Of course, what did you expect? I had to take care of him somehow.” Mickey stopped walking, his eyes growing the size of melons seeded with worry.

            “So you fuckin’ _kill_ him? What the fuck is wrong with you?” He felt like he was about to cry out of fear and anger and disgust, before Enzo burst into a fit of laughter that only inflamed Mickey’s alarm. Suddenly, he felt as though he was going to kill someone as well. His milk skin was blushed red, and his head was a swarm of livid bees. “In what universe is that shit fuckin’ funny?” Mickey screamed. Enzo rested a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, who recoiled with immediate repugnance. Enzo’s laughs only grew louder and more unsettling.

            “You’re funny, idiot! I didn’t actually kill him,” All the fire in Mickey’s skin was extinguished and his chest heaved with relief. “Man, you should see the look on your face.” Mickey kissed his teeth and waved a hand of dismissal. _Fuckhead._

            “W-wait, then what the hell is all that blood on your hand?” Enzo cooled his laughter and shrugged, though Mickey caught a flash of Brazilian secrecy inside his mysterious, syrupy eyes.

            “I accidentally cut my finger, using the knife to scare him away.” Mickey nodded, ridding himself of any further questions, “it’s just a scratch, really, the little ones, they bleed like hell.” Enzo finished shining away the knife and folded the silver blade back into itself, guarding it in the wide plastic handle, he slid it in the back of his jeans, and they strolled along the sidewalk. He expressed briefly that he was thinking about buying cheap papaya from a dehydrated fruit stand and Mickey smiled in recognition, barely listening to him as the words ran in a red circle through his mind, “ _the little ones, they bleed like hell_.” Mickey was almost certain that he’d meant little ones _hurt_ like hell.


	7. IAN

           The days rolled over Ian like ice water in the arctic.

           A week had passed since the funeral and he still hadn’t returned to work, despite his suspension expiring four days ago. He’d been avoiding his family with sharp turns and back bent dodges, as to not be confronted by their patronizing spews of concern about him and his _poor_ , _poor_ heart. He spent most of his time in his room, crying, thinking himself to death, or trying his best force something down that contained calories as his appetite seemed to have been completely eradicated. Most of the time he just ended up drinking something, and most of the time it was alcohol. Through and through, his entire will to give a shit was slowly disintegrating. _It all hurts, it all just fucking hurts._

            And when someone’s entire body ached, and their chest felt as though it’d been pumped to bursting with iron and ice, it could keep them from wanting to do much. And while he did not want to do anything but lie around in a heap of his own self pity, he knew it wouldn’t do much to keep him feeling any more alive than Mickey was. So with a hard chest and pressed lungs, he’d thrown back the rough sheets from his childhood bedroom, after laying in the darkness of insomnia and dressed himself to escape his own cage of another restless night. He couldn’t say the place he took the train to was any better than his bedroom, _but fuck, at least I’m out of the goddamn house_.

            The Fairy Tail was a blend of old men, men that were barely legal, and pulsing strobe lights that bruised Ian’s skin different colors every time they flashed. He didn’t know why he was there. The shaking music tore his ears and as soon as he’d walked through the door the ideation of he and Mickey, kissing under blue and violet lights flashed inside his mind faster than the neon flux that surrounded him. Still, at least he could meet that reminiscence with a string of shots and a tight ass in sparkled shorts to distract him from the pain of it all.

            He took a long draw of breath and walked with unsure steps to the bar. He hadn’t been there in so long; he felt like as out of place as a rabbit at tea, walking through the club with his rough boots and pasty skin. He looked as depressed as he was, and everyone there was lit with high life and thumping tunes. Though all he wanted was something to make his mind and self loathing disperse, even if just for a little while. So, he ordered hard vodka and let it burn the back of his throat in acidic pleasure. And as the alcohol swelled his system and his head was dipping its toe in the pool of waste he’d soon be swimming in, he became more and aware that men were creatures of sex, and fuck, he needed to get laid.

            He and Trevor were undoubtedly over, and Ian wasn’t planning to get into a relationship anytime soon. _Don’t think there’s a lotta guys that are my type here, though._ Ian thought, watching a thin, soft, twink grind his groin along the stage. An old man with a beard of silver wire kissed at him and showered singles in his face. His head was already starting to hurt from the strobe lights and rough vibrations of the music. _I shouldn’t have come here._

            Ian set his drink down, and scratched the red of his hair, about to leave, when a broad chested, tight muscled man, with tough arms, tangled in tattoo sleeves came from the bathroom. His hair was styled in a long quiff that cut the back of his neck, and his eyes looked cool and demanding in the light of the club. Ian paused and looked back to the small glass of liquor on the bar counter. Tossing the rest of it down his throat, letting the bitterness bring him bravery, he pursed his lips and shook his head, putting out some of the fire at the back of his throat.

            The steps he took toward him were quiet and pushed only by his drink and sex drive. The guy was smoldering and sexy, but well, Ian knew he was pretty sure if his game was good enough for them to get to the point of playing in dark sheets together, he wasn’t going to be topping this guy. It came unbidden and strange to Ian and sent shivers to the core of his bones. _Though, I thought the same thing about Mickey._ He threw away the thought before it could consume him and leaned against the wall, next to the tatted man with a face like rough sex. His jaw was covered in a bristle of stubble and he ran his hand through a strip of long, dark hair.

            “Hey,” Ian started, “what’re you doin’ here?” He hadn’t really been playing the field in a while, and with the little spark of spirits swirling inside his stomach, he wasn’t particularly aware of the effectiveness of his sensual small talk. Moreover, it’d been at least a year since he’d had a one night stand, and the initiating of one felt strange.

            “Ah, just, my brother works here, waitin’ for him to get off.” Ian nodded, he hated the way he sounded trying to just use the guy for his cock and pretty face, but his own was begging him to at least try to get a little _something_.

            “What’s your name?” He yelled it over the loud music. The guy seemed distracted, though Ian did not know if it was his own thoughts, the dancing of muscled gays, or the discomfort of a stranger’s company.

            “Ah—Tristan, and you?” He dragged the words out and Ian could bite the tension in the air. The direction was clear, and there was no point in keeping the ice intact, so Ian tapped it with his boot and then broke it in a rough kick of words.

            “Ian. Hey, you wanna maybe go someplace that’s not so loud?” At that, Tristan’s mouth gaped, catching the path Ian meant to go down, a gradual flow of uneasiness and irritation crawled his fine features in steady stripes of embarrassment.

            “Wah—you aren’t hitting on me are you?” Ian sighed and smiled small, dropping his hands in a slack of defeat.

            “You caught me,” Tristan looked dumbfounded and smiled in a dorky bashfulness that Ian did not think could come from the rugged biker looking dude. “What? Sorry if I came on too strong, I just thought—”

            “Nah, nah, it’s just I’m not into that, my brother, he gets off soon, then we’re headed someplace else” Ian wanted to roll his eyes and punch himself in the face. Was he really so rusty as to crust the sense of his gaydar? _Not a lot of straight guys come here though,_ he reminded himself, _just the one guy I decide to take interest to._

           “Oh, okay, sorry.” Ian was now the one suddenly mortified and just as he was about to kick himself from the wall and take the nearest exit home, familiar flashes of a face, coated in several strobes of the rainbow, walked toward he and Tristan with a growing grin. His skin was the same olive as Tristan’s, and they both shared a thick brown heap of hair on their heads. Ian would’ve known him from anywhere. Brad. He’d given him his training when he first got his job there, and had he stayed any longer, they may have reached the title of “friends.”

            Happy go lucky and more promiscuous than any of the other bartenders and dancers he’d met there, even with the taste of sex on his tongue, and the quick, mysterious smile that Ian struggled to decipher, he was always kind. And no one could argue to that. Brad brought smiles to faces, and that was one thing Ian could not help but to crave. _A smile, one Mickey would’ve liked to see._

            “Brad?” Ian questioned, pleasantly surprised.

             At the sound of Ian’s voice, Brad’s eyebrows shot through the roof, and his perfect teeth shone in an elated beam. “Ian, holy shit, what’re you doing here?” He gave a casual hug and Ian returned it loosely, tapping behind his shoulder in a friendly gesture. When they pulled from one another, Ian was shrugging and wearing a look of sparse confidence as he scanned the club, returning Brad’s eyes after a preoccupied gander.

            “Just stopped by to try and…take my mind off things, you still work here, huh?” Brad chuckled, and cracked his knuckles, a habitual ritual Ian had seen him perform at least a hundred times working with him.

            “Not like I could get a better job,” it wasn’t completely casual, tinged with only a sip of sadness, though he played it off as otherwise, “but I don’t hate this one, so it’s all good. What’ve you been up to?” Ian felt something devastated and pathetic twinge inside him. _Guy I’ve loved since I was a freshman in high school is dead, boss is probably wondering where the hell I am, can barely pull myself out of bed, survive off beer and saltines._

            “You know, I’m okay,” Ian forced a quick, “been workin’ as a EMT,” though he was anxious that he wouldn’t be for much longer.

            “Nice change from shakin’ your dick on a stage.” The way he eyed him, up and down, raised something stupid and sexual inside Ian’s gut. “You seein’ anyone?” His breath wavered at Brad’s forwardness. He’d never been one to waste time. “Not that I’m trying to be all up on you, but, you gotta boyfriend?” Ian shook his head fast, before his heart anchored itself in his stomach.

            “No, no he died.” He knew that technically they weren’t dating when Mickey passed. He knew that he had broken Mickey’s heart more than once, and he hated himself for it, and given the chance, given the miracle of some phantom’s resurrection, he would’ve held Mickey like grains of gold and lumps of gemstone, because even if they weren’t _technically_ together when Mickey burned to bursts of smoke somewhere through Mexico, _goddammit_ , he was his boyfriend. He’d always be, in some sentimental sense. _So, there’s no point in putting that stupid little_ “ _ex_ ” _in front of the word._

            “Jeez, sorry I asked,” Ian hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable, but the words busted from his lips faster than he could think. “Same guy you were with a couple years ago?” Ian titled his head wondrously and nodded. He’d talked about his boyfriends when he worked in the club, but he’d also slept around a lot back then, and he didn’t think he yapped enough about Mickey for anyone to remember.

            “Yeah, I was, but I don’t know if I really mentioned him all that much.” Brad spoke in a fast wheel of a question that nearly knocked Ian on his knees.

            “The guy that came in here and beat my ass when I told him you didn’t leave alone that night?” Ian could not suppress the sad bits of laughter that hummed in his chest.

            “Yep, that was Mickey.” Brad’s laughter died with Ian’s and he only eyed him speculatively for a moment, before laying down his offer.

            “Well, hey, me and my brother are heading to this party, up north, you should come with, take your mind off things, right?” Ian sighed, unsure and glanced again around, nervously. He sure as hell didn’t plan on staying at the Fairy Tail.

           “I don’t know man, I was about to leave.” He said, though it was evident he was doing his best to talk himself out of it more than he was trying to excuse himself from Brad’s offer.

           “Ah, come on, they’re gonna have a discount tattoo artist, why his straight ass is comin’,” he pointed his thumb at Tristan and gave another bright, Brad smile. “Crazy music, some drinks, harder than anything they have at this place. Come on, let your hair down a little.” Ian eyed the room and released a wavering breath. He knew well enough that it was a bad idea to be exposing himself to all this. He’d already survived his drunken scene he’d put on in front of Trevor, cutting him with the sharp, pungency of his words. This was pushing it, especially with lithium pumping through his veins and stacks of immovable depression weighing on his shoulders that he knew would be less heavy with just a touch of liquor and lime.

            Still, not going with Brad meant returning home. Returning to the scratch of his sheets and the cold. It meant leaving himself to lie in his thoughts and drown in his regret, in his growing disdain for himself and for the crash and crumble he could feel within his own body. Worst of all, it meant he had to go home to Mickey’s memory, and they’d be alone, together, in the house, and that was tearing Ian apart, bit by bit. So much that he was pretty sure, soon enough, there would not be much of him left. And with that in mind, and the pathetic feeling of stones in his chest, Ian’s breath evened out to something more casual. _Fuck it._

            “Yeah, sure.” Brad smiled and patted Ian on the back. _Just some stupid party anyway, doesn’t mean I can’t pace myself this time I drink._ Brad’s arm was still at his shoulders when they left the Fairy Tail

 

 The L slid along smooth rails to an apartment farther north than Ian was familiar with. The building towered over them, and beams of light stood like stars in the deep black of the windows. As they climbed steps of soiled rubber to the room where the party was being held, Ian lost count of the amount he was taking, and face to face with the door to the party, he could feel his chest rise with pounds of nerves, slowly floating back home, at the fear of not knowing what the hell he was walking into.

             The apartment door flew open after Brad’s abhorrent pounding with a wave of pot smoke that filled Ian’s nose in white, stuffy shocks. Brad, seemingly unaffected by the haze, tugged on Ian’s elbow and pulled him through it with ease. Tristan followed leisurely, and Ian’s heart was racing at the place.

             Maybe he should have just stayed home. Maybe he should have retreated back to an element of familiarity, even if it meant crying the rest of the night. None of this was within his element anymore. His loss of control was not something that came after a few drinks either, it came fast, and sudden, and once he’d lost control it was deathly hard to gain it back. _Calm down_ , _Ian_ , _you’re in control now_ , _pace yourself and you’ll be all right._

            The party was a conglomerate of near naked girls, sloppy straight guys grinding against them, and loud, flamboyant gays that weaved through the entire crowd. Some were in drag, others, topless with glittered chests and ripped jeans. Though one thing all they had in common was the coke and weed that was rushing through their blood. _Might as well never left the Fairy Tail_ , Ian thought, passing through a hall where two shirtless girls with fat breasts were competing in a race to suck off each other’s face. He hated that he was so nervous, but the infectiousness of the party’s madness only worried him more. And Brad was dragging him deeper and deeper into the room with a rough grip and careless steps. They’d been there for hardly thirty seconds and they’d already lost his brother too.

              When Brad finally stopped fighting time with his feet, they were standing in front of a fabulous fairy topped with thin blond hair and a goofy smile, he wore bright red lipstick and kissed at both of them flamboyantly. “ _BRADLEY_!” He shouted and ran to give him one of the prettiest hugs Ian had ever seen. The way his arms wrapped around without even touching him, his fingers like feathers behind Brad’s back, he pulled away with the same elegance and smoke fell from his nose.

              “Hey, Marley, didn’t mean to be so late, ended up staying an hour after work.” The lipstick wearing queen left a red ring on a cigarette, and sipped from a green glass.

              “Don’t worry about it, babe, who’s this?” He flicked a hand of manicured fingernails at Ian and Brad chuckled.

              “His name’s Ian, a friend of mine, he used to work at the club.” The smile that licked Marley’s lips gave vibrant flickers of interest and sexuality. He spoke in excited purrs that somehow chimed through the vibrations of techno.

             “He’s gay?” The blond clarified a huge grin on his face. Ian nodded, his mouth in a tight, awkward knot. “Jesus, honey, you need to loosen up a little, you look like you might tip over, you’re so stiff!” He laughed with his teeth, and poured crystal liquid into a cup, “Here, have a drink.” Marley passed a clear glass that smelled of gin. Ian took it with hesitancy.

             “This, doesn’t have anything in it, does it?” He asked immediately, though he hadn’t seen anything dropped in it, the gleam in Marley’s eye when he said “loosen up” said it meant more than a little spot of gin. Marley scoffed and put his hands on his hips.

            “Honey, don’t worry about it, just hurry up, and feel somethin’, I think you’re the only sober person here right now.” Ian nodded, feigning a smile, _leap of faith,_ he thought before swallowing the spirits in simple sips. Immediately a buzz warmed him, and he’d felt it enough working at the Fair Tail enough to identify it. _Just a little molly won’t hurt you, Ian, this is nothing you can’t handle._ It was a small cup too, and he didn’t feel like he was on air, just a bit _looser_ , nothing to get him fucked up.

             “Well, I’ll talk to you later, Marley, we’re gonna go dance.” Brad declared, Ian raised a brow and finished off the drink, setting the glass down on a table crowded with other abandoned cups.

            “We are?” He yelled it through the room though Brad didn’t hear, leading him into a ring of sticky bodies and glitter mouths, Brad pulled Ian close and ground into him, bumping his shoulders to the music in party play, Ian laughed at his incredulous moves. Watching Brad move like he didn’t care, in his own stupid world against him, let Ian release a lot of the tension that tied him so flatly to the floor and brought out something rowdy in him that hadn’t been present in far too long.

             And while he knew neither of them were fairly good dancers, they did so anyway, waving their bodies in a wasting heap, Ian pouring himself a few more cups of gin to calm the last bit of nerves that were fast fading. _Is that your nerves or your control Ian_? _Think._ It was his nerves, he affirmed to himself and ran from anything that said otherwise. _I’m okay, I’m okay._ He repeated it to himself as he let Brad sway behind him, rubbing his chest with rough fingers that reached around him to crumple the crisp of his t-shirt. Brad had always been nothing if not familiar.

            And when he pulled Ian aside, fitting them inside a small crook by the bathroom, whispering with stupid grin a repetitive “come here,” Ian had reasonably assumed he was going to either tell him he wanted to get out of there so they could fuck, or do so in the darkness of the apartment. He did neither though, and Ian’s eyes grew to the size of the moon when he pulled a dime bag packed with powder that sparkled like freshly fallen snow. He held a straw and mirror that he’d pulled from his pocket and put the short straw between his lips like a cigarette as he carefully poured the dust on the reflective glass.

          “This is some expensive stuff, not that baking soda they got out there, couldn’t mix it with their other shit.” A lump was stuck in the middle of Ian’s throat like a cold rock, and his stomach quivered nervously at the sight of Brad cutting it with a credit card on the small, shiny, square surface.

         “I can’t, I’m not—” Ian protested, though he wasn’t sure what for. _For the sake of you spiraling downward into a pit of bad decision_ , _asshole_ , Ian had to remind himself. “I shouldn’t do this.” Brad looked to him, unfazed by Ian’s expressive concern, and chuckled.

         “Don’t think anyone _should_ , but hey, you only live once, right?” He raced the line on the mirror in a quick snort, pinching his nose and rubbing away the burn. “ _Fuck._ ” Ian stared at him with an uncomfortable battle of anxiety brewing in his chest. “Come on, I’m trying to share it with you, it ain’t no low grade blow.” His eyes met Ian’s in a coaxing flash of trust. “Just _one_ line, come on.” _Come on Ian_ , _you should just get out of here_ , _go home_ , _maybe try to call Trevor in the morning, even if it is just to finalize a break up._

  * _Or you could just do one line._



          His heart jolted at the words. It was not his own inner speech, and Brad’s lips hadn’t moved at all. In a quick fit of fear, Ian looked behind him, but found nothing but walls and whirls of drunks. _The fuck was that_?

         “Did you hear something?” Brad rolled his eyes, and Ian realized as he spoke, that Brad probably thought he was just being a smart ass.

         “Just one, don’t be such a straight,” he chuckled at his easy use of play on words, “not a lot of those here anyway.” Ian heaved a great sigh and flapped his fingers for him to hand over the straw, a movement that only lit a smile to Brad’s face. _I won’t be able to care what the fuck that was if I just get a little more up._ This was not the beginning of a spiral toward poor judgment anyways. His poor judgment had kicked in as soon as he’d gone off to the Fairy Tail. _Might as well accept it at this point._

         The powder crawled Ian’s nostrils, and tickled the inside of his head. He rubbed his nose in a quick swipe and Brad repacked all his coke supplies. As soon as it was away, he was pulling Ian in for a kiss, and Ian, smacked in the face with a euphoric blast and a wet mush of lips, dissolved into it. Warm and wet and filled with sex, everything tingled inside him, like his nerves were tiny sparklers, and for a moment, he thought that maybe the meaningless things could fill the hole, not that he wouldn’t use them in moderation. After all, it was just one line.

 

It took longer for him to completely let go of the rope that was keeping him on the ground, than he thought it would. But, nonetheless, two hours into his arrival, ten shots down, and about eight more lines of coke, Ian was off the floor of the Earth and floating through the air. He’d lost his shirt somewhere along the way, and his chest was as shiny as the dust packed inside his nose. His head banged to the music, and he pulled on weed that was sour smelling and so strong he could barely feel his face.

            They’d surpassed cutting coke on a mirror, and were pushing it inside their noses from the back of their hands. All the while, Brad ran his fingers over every part of Ian he could touch, only to Ian’s numb and intoxicated amusement. Now, he could feel the heat of his lips kissing on his shoulder, and his nails pinching into his chest, he turned around to face him in a hot slop of substance abuse, and ran their faces into each other for a while, before returning back to air and space to ask him for more coke, Brad smiled, and granted it, generously.

            “Fuck,” Ian breathed, recovering from the pile of pearls he’d just inhaled, “how much of that shit do you got?” They’d both had at least enough to substitute sugar in a batch of brownies, and still he kept taking more and more packs of powder from his pocket. Brad chuckled with a touch of naughtiness and spoke in a voice as loud as the music.

            “Plenty!” They kissed again like junkies.

             He felt everything and nothing in all the right ways. With wasted fervor, he was nothing but warm, and fuzzy, and sexy, and hot, void of any thoughts of Mickey, or his death, or any of his problems. They were all in thin bits through the air, and he could feel only the buzz of drugs and booze, and Brad’s spit on his tongue. They pulled away from each other in a wasted syrupy mess, Brad laughed, stealing the joint from Ian, he smoked it too hard, and coughed his heart and lungs up in long clouds of smoke.

            “Hey, let’s go get tattoos,” Brad strained to speak through his fit of coughs and gestured to a plump tattoo artist with a brown beard and bald head, his arms and neck were more ink than they were skin, and his ears were gauged wide enough to fit a child’s hand. _Oh right_ , _he said one was gonna be here._ Ian grabbed a glass from a table and downed it in a matter of seconds.

            “Fuck yeah, let’s go get a fuckin’ tattoo.” They sat in front of a dark skinned drag queen, sitting next to the bearded artist. A pink afro was fluffed on the top of the queen’s head, his lips were coated in blue glitter, and his nails looked like claws coming off of his skinny fingers.

            “I do money, fa Rocky ova here, now whatch y’all wantin’?” He smacked gum obnoxiously, and pointed to the squat tattooed man next to him. Ian laughed, though nothing was funny.

            “I’m just getting words, and like a fucking, like cross, or rose, some shit like that y’know?” He shouted over the music, and pulled sixty dollars from his wallet, setting it down on the tiny table between them with a sense of pride.  The queen’s long lazy eyelashes fluttered in exasperation and he blew an annoyed white bubble with his gum.

            “I’mma need more than that, hunty.” Ian dropped two more twenties and sniggered at himself, or maybe it was at the guy’s afro, he wasn’t sure, he felt like he was going to fall through a cloud, and so it was hard for him to give any reason to what he was doing.

            “That should be enough right?” He smiled wide, and the look of disdain and disgust on the fairy’s glitter lips almost set Ian into another chortling fit.

            “Y’all white people high as some motherfuckers,” he spoke loudly and clacked his fingers in the tattoo artist’s direction. “Rocky, he won’ somin’.”

            “Oh, okay, I thought these fuckers forgot I was here.” Rocky adjusted himself on a stool that looked too tiny for his fat legs and pulled together a needle and ink, slapping a pair of black gloves onto his arms. “All, right, whatever you want, needs to be small, nothing too time consuming, other people might want to get shit put on themselves too while they’re fucked up, so they can regret it in the morning.” He was drinking too, and he had a cynical smile on his face while he fiddled with the little set on his tiny fold table, a smile that would’ve made Ian nervous in any other state. “So, what do you want, ginger?” Ian laughed loudly when Brad whispered in his ear that he planned on getting a smiley face on his ass, and then he leaned in close to say what he wanted with drunken glee.

            “Oh, nothing too like, big, just I want, this—listen,” Ian slurred, giggling through his words, “my boyfriend died, so I want to get his name, like ‘rest in peace’—and then his name.”

            “Okay, and what’s his name?”

            “Mickey!” Ian blurted fast.

            “Mickey?” He looked with dry amusement. “Like the mouse?” At that Ian busted into a fit of chuckles that brought him near tears.

            “Like the mouse! Yes, like the mouse, just R.I.P Mickey, that’s it.” The guy laughed at Ian pathetically and prepared the needle.

            “All right, kid, where you want it?” Ian pointed to the center of his chest, right where his heart was.

            “Here, right here.”

 

His face was stuck to his pillow in a splash of dry spit. He didn’t remember how the hell he got home, but he had, because he was in his room, and Brad was laying next to him. Though as Ian peeled himself from the stickiness of his bed, the slump beside him bolted up in a quick rush, holding his head in his hands, he recovered fast. Though, Ian had no idea how, as his own head was deadweight and filled with wasps. The night was there in spots and flashes without much legibility or sequence. And realizing, he was in bed, with Brad, and neither of them had their pants on, it did not take any memory for conclusions to run through his mind.

            “Did we fuck last night?” He asked, though the answer was rather obvious. Brad shrugged, pulling a flask from his pocket. He took a white sip, as they both stood from the bed. Ian’s clothes were strewn throughout the floor, save his shirt—which he’d somehow managed to put back on—and loose boxer shorts that let a breeze pass his balls.

            “Apparently,” he spoke without a care, “I gotta go, I got shit to do.” He patted Ian’s ass, and left down the stairs like it was his own house.

            When Ian came down the staircase himself, trying to rub some wakefulness into his eyes, Brad was leaving through the front, and Lip was spreading mayonnaise on a piece of wonder bread, as the clock by the stove told that it was lunchtime. Lip raised a judging brow and Ian blinked at him with hung over wooziness.

            “See you had a fun night,” he remarked, “who was that?” Ian yawned, scratching his chest, his shirt drew over his hand as he fought an itchy spot by his nipple

            “Just a guy I used to work with, went to a party last night, apparently we fucked, though I don’t remember—fuck, anything.” Lip nodded, though his face was tied in twists of wonder that Ian didn’t understand.

            “See you got another tattoo.” Ian recoiled and looked to his brother in disbelief.

            “ _No._ ” He scoffed, though the look his older brother maintained did not tell the same story.

            Hesitant, Ian pulled his shirt up and the feeling of newly imprinted ink shocked him as though it was not there before. _Shit._ Tearing the entire thing off, he ran to the bathroom, and ignored Lip’s light chuckling. Staring in the mirror at it, backwards in the reflection, it read in dizzy calligraphy, a clean, crisp, “ _R.I.P Mickey_ ,” with a plain black crucifix underneath it. Lip was standing in the doorway, a smirk on his face as he took a bite of his sandwich. “The fuck did I do?” Ian traced his fingertips along the flaky ink pressed underneath his skin.

            “Hey, it’s not all bad,” Lip chewed, “I mean, now the score’s even right, you said he got yours, now you got his?” It was clear he was trying his best to keep from laughing, and Ian could’ve slugged him if he wasn’t filled to the brim with grog and fog. _Too soon_.

           “Go fuck yourself, Lip.” Ian spat. Lip smiled and backed away from the bathroom, Ian heard the front door slam and his phone ring, almost at the same time, and he darted his eyes around trying to find it, stopping at the buzzing screen on the counter, he unlocked it with a swipe and answered to Brad’s voice, so filled with enthusiasm, he could hear the brilliance of his face over the phone.

           “Hey, Ian, know I just left, but I wanted to tell you, I think we should do that again sometime, I mean, we had fun, didn’t we? At one of our places next time though, we can fix it up ourselves.”

           Brad was a character. While his carelessness sometimes was awe inspiring, his ideology of living life to the fullest, refreshing, it was dangerous, not that danger had ever stopped Ian before. _Brad has always had a bit of an edge to him._ His quick grin, and smoky eyes, he didn’t worry about anything, it was just fun, and passion. And Ian, being the drunken twink he’d played last night, had tattooed Mickey’s name in the center of his chest, dark and louder than the text of his tombstone, he’d have to look at it for the rest of his life. _And Brad_ …

          Brad provided him with that twinge of reckless relief that he could not help but compare to what he’d found in his dead boyfriend. Though, he could never feel anything for Brad that he felt for Mickey, he had all the resources to provide him with that reckless relief that stayed his insatiable hurt and relentless remorse. He had no problem with the fact that they’d never be more than reckless, gay, idiotic friends, as long as it meant mind numbing blow, and blackout liquor. And weighing all that, with Brad’s breath on the line, waiting for a response. Ian swallowed, and then smiled, tiny and tired.

           “You’re on.”


	8. IAN

            Another week waved past Ian without much taste to it. He’d taken the train to a brown apartment complex with clean paint after Brad invited him over with a jovial thrum to his voice. Paved stairs reached up each story, and wrapped around every room. He took them two by two, and knocked on a pristine silver door with a black frame of glass that fit like a futuristic mosaic. Brad opened it clumsily, and fought the bark of a blond dog with paper thin flags for ears. “Hey, come on in.” He cracked open the door wider, still bothered by the hop of his dog, “Down, Bridgette,” he commanded. Ian stepped inside the door, scratching the slobbering dog on the head. Her nails tapped like wooden shoes on the hard floor, and as Ian averted his eyes from the dog and stared into Brad’s apartment, he saw that it was just as eccentric as its resident.

         The walls were painted an eggshell white, ripped with diagonal lines of blue. They fit several framed photographs of gracefully nude men that surrounded sticky leather couches, flashing a shiny black. The dog leapt onto one of them and pressed her chin on her front paws, staring at them wearily, Ian smiled, glancing at the glass table in front of the sofa, dappled with bottles of white liquor and cigarettes. _Looks pretty expensive for a stripper._

           “Hey, you mind?” Ian pointed to the drinks on the table and Brad shook his head.

           “Go for it.” Permission granted, he took a clear bottle of white rum from the table and poured it into a glass that was seated on the same surface. Meanwhile, Brad disappeared into a deep closet by the front door. From it, he hauled more than it looked like it could hold, removing three cases of beer, and a plastic bag of chunky weed, deep green and fuzzy. _He really is a junkie_ , Ian thought, watching him organize the beer and pot along the floor.

            “Beer’s for your place, we can throw the party over there. You’re family won’t care, will they?” It was the weekend, the only one there would probably be Lip and Liam, and neither of them had ever given much care to whomever Ian brought over to the house. Of course, his family might’ve been a little upset at the fact of his wanting to turn it into a loud, abhorrent party stuffed with people he hardly knew. _I_ ’ _ll try to keep it fairly tame._ His thoughts wouldn’t have fooled anyone, including himself.

           “No, probably not, as long as it doesn’t get too crazy.” He’d left the last party with a permanent emblem woven in his skin and a head so shaken he hardly knew his name. He did want to have fun, but he couldn’t do that again, Brad had brought him to a place that released a beast normally kept behind bars. Not that he blamed him for it—well, he tried not to, but his self control disappeared in his presence. His influence was pungent and precarious, someone he would’ve otherwise compared to his resented parents. _Reckless relief._ The reminder rung in his ear louder than any sense, and Brad’s chuckle split his thoughts down the middle.

            “Marley’s party scare you huh? Yeah, he can tend to get more than a little bit—excited. We won’t let this one get so bad.” The way Brad’s mouth twitched at the end of his sentence was less than convincing. _With you it’s bound to get a little rowdy_ , he allowed, _but not like Marley_ ’s. Ian gave a sideways glance to the weed. It wasn’t for more than a few short joints. _Hope he doesn_ ’ _t plan on using that for the entire colony of guys that_ ’ _ll be swarming the place._

            “That won’t be enough for a crowd,” Ian voiced his concern and waved a hand toward the grass. Brad shook his head, dismissing Ian’s words.

            “Not for tonight, I just thought we could smoke up while we’re here.” The lips of the Ziploc puckered when he opened it, pulling the weed from the plastic sack. He swept a sheet of rolling paper from a plastic pack. Beginning to roll it, he stopped himself in the middle of licking the edge of the small joint. “But first, I gotta show you something.” He waved his hand with enthusiasm and Ian followed him up a short staircase, swallowing a bit of his drink, he left it on the counter of the kitchen.

            His bedroom was a step down from the rest of the place. His mattress came topped with a red cotton cover, and the same framed photos of oiled abs and sexy stubble that patterned the walls in his living room mounted the otherwise naked walls. The closet was small, but deeper than the one in the living room, stuffed with both casual thickness, winter garb, and party gear that was more colorful than his personality. Brad shoved himself inside the small crook, bending over in a way that appeared tiresome and awkward while he sifted through a tight, dark corner, from where he pulled a thick plastic bag that he lifted on top of the black dresser across from his bed. He unraveled the cling of the shopping bags and dropped two saran wrapped bricks of snow onto the dark wood. Ian’s mouth gaped at the hefty sight of the drug. He picked one up with delicate fingers, as though it might shatter at his touch. It was packed so tight it might’ve burst.

            “I told you I had plenty more.” Ian quirked a brow and tossed the block between his hands, testing its weight.

           “You did?” He didn’t have any memory of him saying anything like that, but the last time he and Brad got together, he hadn’t had a whole lot to remember anyways.

           “Well, you _were_ smashed—but yeah, two pounds.” He held out the “s” on the end of the word and Ian’s eyes grew, still held in a trance of flaky narcotics.

           “Jesus, fuck, how much is this worth?” Ian put the pack back on the dresser, next to the other one, and Brad gave a light chuckle, his bright teeth shone in his smile.

            “Around thirty thousand a piece.” He nodded, proud of himself, and Ian swallowed the lump in his throat. _Sixty thousand dollars of fucking coke._ Wonder and worry shocked Ian’s as a thousand questions ran through his mind. _No surprise he can afford all this shit._ But, how did he have that much? Where did he get it? What was he going to do with it? What was Ian doing hanging around a guy worth that much in drug money?

  * _Getting high. Idiot._



            Ian stopped the bitter urge to knock himself in the head and quiet whatever uncontrollable speech poked through his mind like arrows in a thin tent. It kept happening. Ever since he was at the party.

           Initially, he’d figured it must’ve been some side affect of mixing alcohol with X and fluffy coke, but then he sobered up and the voices hadn’t stopped speaking. Whispering, at better times, and shouting as loud as someone speaking through a mega phone at others. No matter the volume, the sensation was new to him, and it scared him shitless every time it happened. And no matter the fluctuation of its intensity, he didn’t plan on telling anyone. The last thing he needed was people thinking he was any crazier than they already did. Beer and coke usually cut the edge of it anyways, stopping them for a little while or at least diluting the anxiety that it traveled with. He just did his best to ignore it as far as anyone could see, shoving it aside, and speaking over the voices with the reality of his own.  

          “Where’d you get all this from?” He kept himself occupied and Brad smiled.

          “Used to deal at the club, rich guys used to buy by the quarter pounds,” he sighed, “but my distributer was just some lone coke runner, so we didn’t have anyone to report to when he got wasted. The little guys just kinda just went off with what he last gave us to sell and dropped everyone else.” Ian nodded. _Nice to know he works with people that get_ “ _wasted_ ” _without question._

  * _Shut up._



_No_ , _you shut up_ , he snapped back with the same amount of venom. None of them held a voice he knew. It was not his own, and though he’d heard of people thinking to hear the voices of their deceased loved ones, he was not fortunate enough to hear Mickey either. _Might like it if I got to talk to him again_ , _even if it_ ’ _s just in my mind._ Maybe that’s what made it all the more terrifying, not knowing the voice that was constantly biting into his thoughts. Though Brad’s voice bit into his mind in an assured pleasantness.

         “I’m gonna sell it, eventually, but for now—it should be enough to get everyone fucked up tonight.” Ian’s head nodded slowly, still staring in awe, and the discomfort of the unbidden thoughts striking his mind.

             “No shit.” _Two pounds of blow is sort of overkill._

            “So, you think we could bring it over to your place now, get set up, then move it on tonight?” Ian’s chest ballooned and deflated.

            “Yeah, sister probably won’t care, just gotta let her know I want the house tonight.”

            “What, she your mother?” Brad scoffed, stuffing the wrapped coke into a black duffel bag he’d fetched from a dresser drawer. Ian followed him back into the living room and he pulled the cases of beer into the wide sack as well.

            “She runs the house, has been since we were kids, gotta lotta respect for her. Plus, she’s sorta the main breadwinner.” Brad’s head shook with understanding.

            “I get it, I get it. She raised you, you listen to her.” It was one thing Brad said that seemed serious, genuine, not lightly laced, with sarcasm, or mischief, or some hidden sexual innuendo. Ian released a long breath.

            “Exactly.” He helped Brad zip it up, and they lifted it together, carrying it side by side, a strap on each of their shoulders to support its weight. _Like holding a hearse_. They took trudging steps out of the door, Brad fought Bridgette with his ankle to keep her inside. It was a good thing he owned a car. Ian didn’t think he could lift the bag, heavy with black bottles of beer and two pounds of coke, all the way to the L, unless he planned on breaking his arm anyways. The wind yanked at his hair outside the apartment door and they climbed down cement stairs to the parking lot, dropping the bag into the trunk of Brad’s ‘70s Charger. “Yeah, I doubt anyone will give a shit.” He said it more to himself than to Brad.

 

The house was lonely when they came through the front door. The silence stuck inside the room like a knife and Ian was glad for it, considering the contents of the sack they lugged in. While no one would probably care if he threw a party, he was pretty sure they’d have an issue with the two pounds of snow shoved in his bag. With Lip trying to get sober, and Fiona and Liam’s experience with the stuff, he expected there’d be a _slight_ reluctance to white powder dusting his lungs. After his little brown brother was kept in the hospital for a week because of the powder that had clogged his toddler nose, cocaine seemed to have been made an unannounced taboo among the Gallaghers.

            “Where should we put it?” Brad asked, setting the bag on the counter while Ian searched for a hiding spot. He would’ve liked to say all he had to hide was the felony amount of drugs in the bag, but it was never a good idea to leave alcohol around Gallaghers, odds were, someone would act upon their genetic instinct and pull glass from the cardboard cartons.

            Ian landed his eyes on the small laundry closet next to the dryer and pointed at it briefly, “Here.” He lifted the bag back off of the counter, his muscles flexing at the effort as he set it onto the drying machine. The zipper whined at Brad’s rough pull and they unloaded the beer first, stuffing it inside the closet. Ian moved some towels around to make space, retrieving two to pull over the coke they were about to store along with the drinks. They both froze when the front door opened.

            Fiona’s rampant steps nearly shook the ground as she stomped through the arch and into the kitchen, slumping her satchel and keys onto the counter. The two turned nervous heads to stare at each other like stooges, their hearts pumping fast at her presence. Ian tried to relax his hunch over the bag and soften his grip on a roll of cocaine, but it was near impossible to look natural, given the substance he was strangling in a nervous sweat.

            “Hey, Fi, what’s up?” His voice was near mechanical, on any other day she may have sworn at him and asked what the hell was going on, but lucky for Ian, she gave a loud puff of breath and ran her fingers through a jungle of dark hair instead. “Something stressing you out?”

            “Everything is,” she affirmed, “racking up asshole tenants, and their fucking destructive animals, and I’m having trouble selling this one place, and so is my boyfriend—well I think he’s my boyfriend considering we spend half our time together trying to sell shit and the other half fucking, but he doesn’t want to use the damn word...for some reason. Anyways, he’s all pissed off today about the whole thing with the vacancies, and he’s pissed off at me, because I _called_ him my ‘boyfriend,” jumped on it like it was some dirty word, and declared that I was _his_ , and only _his_ , like I was some piece of property, so I’m not exactly, sure where we stand on that.” Ian nodded, pretending to follow along. “Sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I?” When she looked to him, after thoroughly venting, she was looking for annoyance on Ian’s face, but instead took note of the hunk with blue eyes and brown hair. She gave a passive nod to him. “Who’s this?”

            “Uh, this is Brad, I used to work with him, we started talking again.” Ian didn’t know why he didn’t just let go of the bag. His arm was locked in place on it even though the bag kept the insides hidden. _If I move it now it’ll look even worse._ “Hey, you don’t care if I have the house to myself tonight do you?”

            “Whatta you plan on doin’?” _Get lit with a bunch of fairies and junkies. Something you would all compare to a Frank or Monica night._ It’s not that he wanted it to get as fired up as the party he’d gone to last weekend, but he knew this time, that the last person to lie to was himself, and saying it wouldn’t get as fired up as Marley’s bash didn’t necessarily make it so.

            “Just, you know, was gonna have a few friends over, get together, you know? Like a party.” She shrugged, resting her hands on her hips. Her eyes were haggard, worn, and still allowing a kind, soft prettiness.

            “I don’t care, I’m probably gonna head on over to Ryan’s stay the night, try to sort things out, but I don’t know about Lip, just make sure Liam’s in bed before you decide to get too wild.” Ian nodded.

            “Yeah, yeah, of course.” That was a given. He didn’t want to end up the second of their clan to feel the weight of an ankle bracelet and labeled a felon for child endangerment.

            She smiled small, tilting her head at Ian’s hand, stiff as a stick inside the black bag. “Whatcha got?” His heart drummed inside his chest, his eyes flicked to and from Brad’s, and he shrugged with every part of his body.

            “Nothing, uh, you know…stuff.” It obviously wasn’t “nothing,” but Fiona didn’t press the matter anymore, clearly beat from a hard day, she chuckled.

            “Okay, you don’t have to tell me.” She ran her fingers through her hair again and dragged herself up the stairs, both Ian and Brad watching intently as she ascended, listening to the softening of footsteps over them.

            Letting go of their breath, the second she was out of view, they started shoving the bundles of coke inside the closet with immediate fervency. _Too fucking close_ , though Ian, fixing them in the back corner, and laying several towels, rolled like cinnamon buns, on top of them. As he closed the closet doors, Brad ran to the front of the house, opening the door so wide and fast, the handle bounced on the wall. _One day that thing is going to break off of its damn hinges._ He ran back inside as quick as he’d gone out, returning with a paper bag, ripping at the top from its fullness. He pulled glasses from it like he was distributing candy to greedy schoolchildren and let a wide smile lick his lips.

            “Tequila, rum, gin, brandy, vodka. Jesus, Brad, you leave anything out?” Ian said, staring at the assorted bottles he’d set on the counter, some filled with amber, and others a gleaming white. _He might be worse than Frank or Monica_ , Ian considered for a moment, _nah, that’s sort of impossible, but still._ Whenever Ian thought Brad had done it all, something always turned to exceed whatever doubt he had to the worsening of things. And as thrilling it might’ve been, it was also scary, though he would not allow his fear get to him before he got wasted enough to not give two shits.

            “I was thinking about getting some moonshine too, just to see who’d have the balls to try it.” Ian’s eyes bulged in his skull and he shook his head. _Not that_ , _that’s something we all go out and challenge each other too._

            “Glad you didn’t, last thing I need is a bunch of drunks passed out on the floor.” Brad clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

            “Well, doubt the subtraction of a little 120 proof would change that.” Ian took a sharp breath. He was so damn careless, getting black out drunk, so high he couldn’t tell the difference between his skin and the ceiling, it was all child’s play to him. _He’s a fucking adrenaline junkie_ , Ian profiled, something dropped to the pit of his stomach every time he thought of how fucked up Brad was, and in turn, how fucked up _he_ was. _The fuck am I doing with this guy_?

  * _Feeling alive._



            It spoke in a sultry whisper this time, one that he could not argue with. He might as well have burned with Mickey in that fire. He felt like he had. He felt like he was still burning, and all he wanted was to be rained on and put out of his damn misery _. Drugs, sex, and alcohol do that pretty well…at least for a little while._

          “We’ll see,” Ian allowed, he smiled and kissed him on the cheek, feeling something on the nerves of his lips he felt he could no longer feel with his heart.

 

By ten o’clock the Gallagher house was painted with strokes of gay men and women, mostly Brad’s friends. And Brad had a lot of friends. And _his_ friends had a lot of friends, and their friends had wolf packs of their own. The growth of the population within the living room was exponential, and they all crammed themselves in swarms that buzzed just as much as bees. The coke was cut on the counter and both the dining and coffee table, misting the air in hand with the haze of chain smokers and baked potheads. At the beginning of their “get together” the cases of beer had been disappearing in a steady decline, though as the time waned, the amount of glasses getting thrown away, and the amount people were bringing with them had reached a stalemate.

            _If I knew this many people brought their own shit, wouldn’t have got so much_. The pile of liquor Brad had stacked on the counter was all about half way through, though most people were substituting the alcohol with more coke—and more coke—and _more_ coke. Half of one of the bags was empty, opened on the counter like a sack of flour. _Leaving it out like that, someone’s gonna fucking steal it_ , he hugged it into his right arm and stuffed it back into the closet. _Jesus Brad._ He still hadn’t managed to get lost in the flow of things, something rigid keeping him from the rest. _Probably not knowing when the hell someone might come home._            

          Liam was supposed to be asleep, but somewhere along the road he’d come down the stairs upon his own curious accord and sat in quiet speculation at the dining table. Ian couldn’t scold him for that one; it was hard to sleep when the house was being thrown up and down with music and partygoers. He seemed unaffected in the brashness though, at least for a child. He  barely flinched when a girl with perky brown breasts pulled up her shirt and let a butch lesbian with short hair shake her face between them. Lip was nowhere to be found.

           Ian had tried texting him to let him know what was going on, but he’d either been too busy or too neglectful to reply with anything that let Ian know that he understood what was going on that night. He figured he might’ve been staying at Sierra’s, especially since Ian was single, and depressed, and alone, and no one expected him to be absent and unable to watch the house. But still, he wanted to know for sure.

If anyone were to walk in now and see what the hell he was doing he’d be in deep shit. He’d be in deep shit regardless, and he already _felt_ like shit just knowing how angry and disappointed they’d be in him. Seeing Liam sitting at the table didn’t help either.

            His eyes were a wide, innocent brown, and Ian’s belly grew with nerves as he picked him up from the chair. “Come on short-stack, let’s get you back to bed.” He carried him up the stairs on his hip and took him to the bedroom, folding him into his bed, Ian could not ignore the strenuous moans coming from a warm skinned Mexican girl and a grubby white guy, sweating on the floor as she rolled her hips along him. “Get the fuck out,” he said casually, and slapped the girl hard on her back, they grunted with an overexertion, trying still to reach their climax before they separated. “I said get the fuck out.” He reiterated, and pulled on her shoulder, knocking them apart, they glared, and walked from the room, naked and carrying what little clothes they’d had on.

            “What are you doing?” Liam asked, as Ian re-tucked the covers under his chin, his words stalled him and he stared at his tiny brother as though he’d just recited the third act of _Hamlet_ , the question almost made him cry. _What the fuck_ am _I doing_? Finding naked lovers on his bed, soiling sheets with the sweat and sex of those he didn’t even know. Pure snow numbed the back of his throat, and so much alcohol swimming in his system his blood must‘ve been just as toxic as his father’s. _It’d probably be the first person they_ ’ _d compare me too_ , he knew, _but they don’t know how good that shit feels when you lost everything that made you feel close to the euphoria of coke and rum_ , he decided, _so, fuck them._

“I’m having a party—just try and get some sleep okay?” Ian placed a quick, chaste kiss on his forehead, and stroked the soft of his curls before peeling himself from the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He closed his eyes and went back down the stairs, taking a breath of bravery that was soon shattered by Lip’s booming voice.

            “ _YOU FUCKING TWAT, IAN, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?_ ” The scream came from near the front door, and Ian quickly made his way to the staircase on the other end that led into the kitchen, stepping down carefully with silent feet, he tiptoed down to the bottom, Lip was staring at the stairs by the living room, waiting for him to come down from that side. _Thank God, hopefully he’ll just get angry and leave,_ Ian prayed, before Lip’s eyes locked onto him from across the room. _Or he can charge in and kick my ass._ He fought the crowd with little regard to how hard he hit anyone’s skin. As soon as he reached him, he pressed on his chest, and Ian collided with a douche bag wearing sunglasses inside, his nose was packed, and he hardly noticed Ian bounce off of his chest. “The fuck is wrong with you?” Ian snarled at him and pushed him out of the way.

            “Just leave me the fuck alone, all right, go stay at Sierra’s, and leave me alone.” Lip gawked at his brother like he’d never seen him before.

           “Does Fiona know what the fuck is going on here—where’s Liam?” His eyes grew at the sight of the dust on the table. “Is that fucking coke?” Ian stuttered to speak and Brad jumped from somewhere in the crowd, tugging Ian into his chest, the redhead did his best to speak through Brad’s groping him.

          “Lip, Liam’s fine, he’s in bed, don’t worry okay?”

           “Your nose is full of fucking blow and there is a girl getting fucked on the floor of our living room! You just gonna turn into a fucking jacked sorry Gallagher shit, just ‘cause someone croaked?”

          The words stung and poured poison down his throat. _Mickey was more than someone._ Ian was somewhere in between wanting to cry and wanting to murder his brother. Both of their faces were hot and red. _I can’t deal with this shit right now_ , Ian resolved. He dipped his finger into the mound of powder on the kitchen table and rubbed it into his gums.

           “Maybe. I almost ran off with a fugitive, how good did you think I would turn out?” It slipped from his mouth, and Lip was too heated to care whatever the fuck he was talking about. The sloppy mess of brown hair on Ian’s brother crept with an angry perspiration as he looked to him with eyes that said he was close to tearing off his head.

           “Who the fuck are you, man?” _I don’t know_ … When he did not answer, Lip stuck a furious smoke inside his mouth and opened the back door. “If Fiona finds out about this, she’s gonna fuckin’ kill you.” He slammed the door behind him, and Ian shouted a loud, “fuck you Lip!” Though, he could see through the window that he was already deaf, and walking around to the front of the house.

 _Whatever_ , Ian thought and mingled back into the crowd with Brad. He needed some relief that was both reckless and sexual. “Who wants to suck my dick?” He shouted into the crowd, Brad laughed along with the few close enough to hear over the murderously loud music. Ian pulled at the same asshole Lip pushed him into, “Hey, you wanna suck my dick?” He shook his head.

            “Nah man, I’m straight.” Ian smiled cynically and laughed.

           “Then why are you at a fag’s house with a bunch of gay dudes?” Ian chuckled more with drunken glee. “Hey, everyone he’s straight!” He pointed obnoxiously and swallowed a mouthful of beer. Brad’s hand hung on Ian’s shoulder and the junkie’s laughter rang with the roar of the circle around them. Ian managed a small chuckle, before his eyes darkened in view of the sunglasses guy. “No one here’s judging you.” Ian spoke with sex, and let his fingers cradle his face before he kissed him. His tongue was hot, spongy, and tasted of vodka. Seeming embarrassed at first, eventually the guy relaxed into the movements of Ian’s lips and fell into it with interest and sensual fascination. _Probably some curious college dork._

           The shitfaced redhead took a few more hits of cocaine and began to feel all his care falling from whatever sobriety had remained. A few people were tangled together in fits of ecstasy on the living room floor, and a woman with warm white skin and brown nipples let a skinny man with honey hair snort coke off her tits. Ian was too fucked up to care.

            His head was made of nothing, and his eyes felt too heavy for his head. _Best thing I’ve felt, ever since the fucking funeral._ He did not dwell on it, and shoved a hand in the same “straight” guy’s pants, massaging the reasonable package held hostage behind his jeans.

            Ten minutes later the “straight” guy was sucking Ian’s cock, while Ian sat on the couch and let the music kill his ears. A joint was between his middle and index fingers, and he released hisses of pleasure, as he allowed the smoke to drain through his teeth. Brad leaned in from behind the couch for a kiss, but Ian simply smiled lazily and puffed smoke into his mouth, Brad caught it, soaking it in his breath, he chuckled at him before he disappeared to make out with a hot black guy with a strong jaw, socializing across the room. Ian pressed the college kid’s hair further onto him, hearing him gag. He put out the joint on the dull green corduroy of the sofa.

            The door opened in a forced swing, and Ian glanced through weak eyelids to his sister, her eyes almost leaving her face at the mess of sex and drugs. Ian ran fingers through his hair, unkempt and stringy. It was getting longer than he cared for.

            “What. The. Fuck.” Fiona’s voice was nearly drowned by the music, but Ian still let some of its audibility grace his ears. He could hear Lip snickering on a drag of smoke on the porch. He groaned, and begrudgingly moved from under the wet warmth of the “straight” guy’s mouth and belted himself up, though his erection felt suffocated in the form fit of his pants.

            “What do you want?” He bothered to ask, and stole someone’s beer to take a sip. 

            “Lip called to remind me I left some papers I needed over here. I almost didn’t come.” Ian rolled his eyes.

            “Shouldn’t have.” He belched softly and dropped the bottle on the ground. 

            “Ian, look at yourself, you’re—” Ian held his hand up in immediate annoyance. 

            “If you’re trying to give me a lecture, save it for when I’m sober enough to remember.” He gave her a patronizing look, touched with distaste and irritation. Her eyes were glassy and appalled, thick with frustration. 

            “What the fuck is going on with you, Ian?” She refrained from the evident urge on her face to scream and slammed her hand on the stereo, shutting it off. The silence was louder than the beat of the music. “Get the fuck out now, before I call the fucking cops!” She screamed, Ian held his fingers to one of his ears at the shrill whip of her voice.           

            “Please don’t tell my mom I was here.” Begged a kid standing near the TV. Neither of them had ever seen him before, but he was very high, very worried, and _very_ underage. Ian and Fi both looked to him with the same spec of disbelief and slight panic. 

            “How old are you?” Fiona interrogated him with a suppressed sob. Brad kissed Ian’s cheek and giggled, leaving with the quickly dispersing crowd. 

            “Fifteen, but, I’ll be sixteen soon.” Ian laughed, his throat sore from his need to cry and the constant burn of vodka. 

            “Fuck!” He held his gut, the hysteria of his laughter refusing to subside. The joke did not sit with Fiona, and her eyes were rimmed red at the sight of her brother, deteriorating at the reality of Mickey’s death. 

            “Nothing is fucking funny, Ian. You could go to jail for this.” Ian ignored her. “Why are you laughing?” Ian laughed more. “Nothing is fucking funny!” He turned to her with a face laced in sarcasm. 

            “No, you don’t get it, that’s what makes it funny. I’m gonna go to jail—and trust me there’s a lot more I could get locked up for than this. I’m gonna go to jail, just like Mickey, and Mickey died, and now I’m going more crazy than I already am. That’s why it’s funny. It’s all fucking funny.”

            “Get the hell out of here, and go home.” She snapped at the teenager. 

            “I won’t tell anyone, my parents would kill me if they knew I was here.” Fiona closed her eyes in an attempt to cool herself. 

            “I said, to get out.” The teenager didn’t wait a second longer in stride of her death glare and raced out of the door, it slammed shut behind him. And when the room was calm, and all that was left were fields of white dust, broken bottles of alcohol, and Ian’s soulless, drugged out eyes, Fiona’s fist cut the side of her brother’s face in a sweep of knuckles. He caught his jaw with his hand, and staggered back, before he crumbled into a bundle of tears.

 _If they thought they’d ever seen mood swings from me before,_ he thought with wry amusement, and collapsed onto bony knees. Fiona caught him, pain trembling the muscles of her face. She sunk into the floor just as he did, holding him in his shattered heap. She cradled his head on her thighs and they sat on the cold wool of the rug in front of the couch.

            He just was so _fucking_ empty. It ripped all he had left in him, all he felt, all he kept hidden, all the guilt he ever burdened and turned it to the highest setting. It hurt to laugh, it hurt to cry, just _existing_ , knowing the one person that he was bonded too, had done everything with, was dead, and he could’ve done something about it. It just _hurt_. And as he lay there, reverting back to the etiquette of a child, the pain of his sobs agonized him. 

            “Why couldn’t he—why’d he have to leave me? Why’d he have to leave me?” He wailed, hitting his fists to the floor. _I could’ve changed it_ , _I could’ve changed it all._ He and his sister’s tears mixed together, and he was near certain his chest was going to explode against the ink of his fresh tattoo. His face felt like it might melt, and his fingers were near numb. “I should’ve gone with him. I should have gone with him.” He stuttered, his eyes paralyzed in a blank stare. 

            “No, Ian!” She sobbed as though she was demanding his will to live. “No! People die, okay? That doesn’t mean you go with them.” _That’s not what I mean, Fi._ He did not voice this though. He poured himself deeper into his sister’s arm, like he was an abandoned babe, helpless and without any hope. _I should’ve gone with him._


	9. IAN

 

            “Has he even been taking his meds?” Fiona’s voice was clear in the sun streams of the morning and Ian faced the wall in bed, hugging the cover closer, though it did not warm the cold that ran deep into his bones, or quiet the invasive words he heard, the ones that did not come from his sister or brother. They were screaming today.

  * _Stupid! Stupid! Die! Your fault! All your fault! Is it his fault? Yes, it is!_



           Ian closed his eyes and drew the cover over his ear as though they could not pierce the cotton barrier, but they did, and the shrill insults tortured him on and on.

          “I don’t fucking know man,” Lip sounded. They must’ve thought he was asleep.

           He had been taking them, well…sort of, whenever he remembered. It was not an intentional neglect, but a matter of remembrance and losing the ability to care about the normality that came with life. Still, it bothered him that they were talking about him, _literally_ , behind his back, he could feel them standing in the doorway of the bedroom, probably looking at him with pathetic, woeful eyes.

           The catastrophe that had swirled through the Gallagher house had been cleaned and shined as though it never happened. Ian had helped a little, though most of it was thanks to Fiona. And now, a week later, he lay in a limp heap on top of his bed, trying to live through the piercing noise of his own mind.

            It was around nine, and while most were up already, his head was being knocked around and his motivation to rise from the comforts of his bed was minimal. Though listening to his brother and sister mutter their concerns of his sanity annoyed him enough to spring up.

           “Not asleep,” he muttered, pushing past them, he felt the air of their sighs, and filed into the bathroom. Pissing into the porcelain bowl, he glanced at the orange bottles of pills on the counter. His Zyprexa was empty. _Can at least take what I have._ When he finished his piss, he pushed down his lithium and wet his face with cold water.

  * _You’re going to die. Good. Let’s hope he does._



            “Please, stop,” it was a plea, a whimper so soft he held the visage of a scared little boy. _How is that fucking fair_? _Why do I have to listen to this shit_? He pushed on his earlobes in violent swirls of his fingers, before wiping the tears falling from his eyes. Maybe he did deserve it. Maybe this torment was his punishment. _I did let him die_ , he considered, _karma must be real._

            He noticed his frame looked a few pounds lighter. _All that coke,_ he knew, _haven’t been eating that much either._ He couldn’t ruin himself completely, not if he wanted to keep staying up late and throwing himself into crowds of happy pills and powder, so he walked with forced energy down the stairs, barefoot and wearing only shorts to cover him. The house was bright and full.

            Debbie was there, Franny on her lap at the dining table, she used a spoon to scoop baby food into the child’s teething mouth. His walk to the kitchen was slow and lethargic, as he picked bread from the open loaf on the counter and ate three slices.

           “Hey, Ian,” Fiona spoke with a smile. Ever since he’d broken down on her lap with half a pound of snow caking his nose, she’d been sickeningly sweet, pitiful toward him. Lip, however, did not share her sugar tongue.

            There was a strong tension between the two brothers. Lip had made it clear that he was not one for much sympathy over the matter anymore. Sure, he cared for him, he understood Ian was hurting, but Ian could tell that he was ignorant to the extent of his pain, showing little tolerance for his recent behavior.

            “You doing okay?” It was Debbie, her voice was sweet and cheery, the same voice she used to talk to Franny. The sound of it annoyed him. _The last thing I need is to be babied._ And as he turned to look at her, answering that he was fine, he noticed a quick flick of her eyes to his naked torso, trying to not stare at the dark ink on his chest.

            Lip sipped coffee at the end of the table next to Debs, and threw glances of annoyance toward his brother. Ian held his hands on his head, and closed his eyes in deep breaths. _Please just let them shut up_ , _please just let them shut up_. He did not know if he was begging for the voices to quiet or his prying family.

            “Hey, dude, when do you plan on going back to work?” Ian ignored him, he’d been getting calls in bulk from Rita, though he’d answered none, there was no point in salvaging his job now. He pulled a beer from the fridge, letting it whisper out mist when he twisted off the cap to take a swig. “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think?” Ian laughed at that.

            “Not everyone has a drinking problem,” he said it lowly with a lazy smile, and Lip’s eyes grew with glossy venom and offense.

            “Could’ve fooled me.” Fiona stopped it with her hands, fighting off the fuming testosterone before it grew too great.

            “Jesus, cut it out.” Her breath that puffed out was full with strength and bottled emotion. “He’s got a point though Ian, you haven’t gone to work, and you have been drinking a lot, plus on your meds—I mean, are you still taking them?” Ian grunted, flattening his arm into an L that he slapped onto the fridge to rest his head on, closing his eyes to ease his mind for a moment, before he whipped around and blew his gasket.

           “Fuck. Okay, I get it, I’m not perfect, I’m going through some shit right now and I’m acting like a total asshole—I know, I’ve got that, okay? Thank you. But, Jesus, stop acting like you are _so_ much fucking better.” Ian’s eyes darted to each of his siblings as he spoke, “You, you’re a felon entrepreneur blowing your money on God knows what. You, Lip, you’re a recovering alcoholic in your early twenties, kicked out of college and working at your sister’s diner, and Debbie, you’re my sister, but you’re also a teenage mother engaged to a paraplegic. And yes, I’m the bipolar, gay, druggie that is ruining his life because some stupid thug died, point is, you all have your own problems…so _please_ : stop trying to fix mine.” Silence settled in the room, and something heavy and soft fell into Ian’s stomach.

  * _Well look what this asshole did now. Jesus. Prick. Stop. End this already._



            “Well, you said it, not me,” Fiona started, “I’m gonna head to work, hope you guys have good day.” She threw a bag over her shoulder and stopped for a moment to look at Ian, Ian returning her stare with a full swish of beer. She shook her head and walked out of the door.

            The ginger Gallagher set down the alcohol and bolted back up the stairs. Stepping inside his room to get dressed, he let his eyes bore a whole in the ceiling, blinking back tears, so that they would not wet the rouge of his cheeks.

            He pulled a dark green shirt over his head and pants that were snug in the leg. Booting his feet, he pulled over a light jacket to shield him from the coolness of the spring’s wind. The row of days that passed had been strangely cooler, despite the spring growth stretching forth to connect with summer’s heat.

            When he climbed back down the stairs, he swiped his beer off the counter and let the fuzz splash over his knuckles. Ignoring the questions of where the hell he was going from his siblings as he slashed the door through the air and let it boom shut.

 

The graveyard was a field of twinkling rocks that shone in the cool sun.

           Mickey’s grave was still fresh, sprinkles of grass poking through black dirt. The others sat in unity, rested with flowers, and decaled pictures printed onto glassy marble. Ian suddenly felt sheepish that he hadn’t brought anything to place before his resting lover’s carved slab of stone. _Not that Mickey would’ve ever given a shit about flowers_ , he knew, _but it would look nice near his name._ Slightly buzzed and loaded with a surplus of distress, he stepped small to another gravesite, someone named Samantha. Her resting place was accented with crimson roses and tiny bouts of baby’s breath. Ian relished in the prick of the thorny stem when he took one of the soggy flowers, coupled with a cradle of tiny white petals, he leaned them against the rock that read his boyfriend’s name. _Fuck_ , it looked wrong.

            Distorted, strange, and sharp, the flowers made the sight worse. He’d thought it’d help to treasure his memory, but it was more like tying a ribbon to a rat. He hated it. And so did the people talking inside his head. They were rampant at the display, pouring convictions of blame and blisters of abuse. He took a sip of drink to try and cool them, but it did nothing, and his breath wavered at their violent speech.

            He just wanted to lie with him, just one more time, hold his hand, feel his skin, smell his smell, kiss him into a smile, and slick his fingers through strands of deep, black hair. Just one more time.

  * _Can’t now. He killed him! Murderer. Your fault, Ian. Your fault. Killer. Stupid. Your fault. Ian. Your fault!_



           “ _SHUT UP_!” Ian finally shouted, pressing onto the shell of his ears, “Shut the fuck up!.” He just needed it to stop, he just needed the shrill, bumbling voices that crowded his head to silence themselves, but no matter how hard he screamed, no matter how hard he tried to shove them aside, they roared and roared, like a crowd of ravers throwing the same words at him in wet slaps and evil cries.

            A graveyard maintenance man with dark skin and gray whiskers raked leaves only a short distance away, letting his brows collide as Ian shouted at the blank air. His eyes darted away when Gallagher glanced at him.

           Ian didn’t think his ringtone would ever save him, but the brash tapping jingle of the phone’s song was his hero. He jerked it from the rough of his jeans and was relieved to see Brad’s name flash at the top of the screen in white print. He picked up in an effortless swipe of the screen. Often the sound of other’s voices helped to abate the crying sounds inside his mind.

          “Hey, what’s up?” He gasped into the phone and Brad chuckled on the other end at Ian’s eager tone.

          “Nothing really, just wanted to let you know there’s this thing going on tonight. Figure you and me have got trashed enough together, was hoping you’d wanna come.” Ian gave a sigh of relief. _Yes, yes, yes_ , he needed the distraction. Though, he couldn’t help but wonder for a moment if Brad ever did something other than get fucked up when he wasn’t tending the bar at the Fairy Tail. Right now though, he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t. He didn’t give a shit how rowdy, or how plastered he got, he just wanted the damn voices to shut the hell up.

          “Yeah, okay, can you pick me up?” Ian begged. Brad spoke with the same friendly reassurance that always laced the kindness of his voice.

          “Of course, I’ll see ya tonight then.” They said goodbyes and hung up. Ian, finished off his beer, dropped the bottle on top of the ground, and listened to it softly ring as it crossed the sharp blades of grass that made up the most of the cemetery floor, icing a meadow of pain, and pouring into the soft dirt of a fresh grave.

 

Ian spent the rest of the day with his headphones in his ears. Music was a pleasing disturbance and kept him from wanting to split his skull.

          He only had about a half hour until Brad would be there, thank God, and he was hoping he’d be early. He’d redressed himself with something a bit more apt to a party, and lay on his back in bed, scrolling something on his phone when Liam walked in, unannounced. He didn’t notice him at first and continued to mindlessly flip through Facebook news-feed, annoyed by the ding of a Messenger notification that lit the top of his screen. It was Trevor.

            _Hey, can we talk_?

            Ian released an irritated breath and swiped it away from his screen. _Don’t want to deal with that shit right now._

            “IAN!” It broke the volume of his music and his phone smacked his face when he dropped it in a subtle startle. Swearing at the pain of the blow, he unplugged his ear buds and set his cell aside, looking to Liam with squinting eyes that bulged when they cleared the sight of the half open bag of white that his little brother was holding. “What’s this stuff?” Ian darted from the bed, and squatted down to Liam’s height as he snatched it away and rolled up the top of the open plastic.

            “Why did you have this? You didn’t take any did you? Please tell me you didn’t take any!” Ian’s voice was full with panic, and his heartbeat rung through his ears. _No, no, no, not again, not to him again, please, God, no._

            “No. I just touched it.”

            “You didn’t breath it in, or taste it, you didn’t take any of it?” Liam shook his head, and Ian threw his arms around him, squeezing him with tight relief. He pulled away, setting the bag down behind him to hold his little brother’s arms, and shake them in firm assertion. “Don’t ever touch this stuff again, do you hear me? It’s dangerous, all right?” Liam nodded slowly, shaken by Ian’s sudden worry.

            “Then why do you have it?” The redhead sighed, closing his eyes in tribulation. _That’s a good question._

  * _Yeah why do you? Faggot._



             He needed his headphones back in. Releasing his grip on Liam’s arms, he patted him on his shoulder, and listened to the door slam open. It was Lip, confirmed by a swear over something he must’ve dropped. Ian quickly rose from the low spot next to Liam and shoved the sack of snow under his bed, waiting for Lip to do whatever he was gonna do, before he went downstairs to get the other one. He needed to hide them somewhere else if it was that easy for a kindergartener to find.

             Lip came up the stairs in loud stomps and Ian laid back onto his bed, shoving his headphones in his ears, he feigned nonchalance, and tapped his fingers around the beats of music, hoping his older brother would leave quickly. _Don’t come in here Lip, please_. He knew that every time his brother saw him he looked on with some foul sense of resentment and frustration, a look Ian hated to see on his face. They were supposed to be best friends, his partner in crime and his shoulder to lean on. If ever he needed a friend, he needed one now, when his lover of five years had been burned to death, and shoved inside the Earth to rot. But the fault of his erratic behavior had only split a deep divide between the two.

             He shouldn’t have said the things he did. It was harmful, and cheap, and vile, but in that moment, with heaps of pity being poured onto him, he could not help but to shake it off with the harshness he knew would make them leave him alone. At least he hadn’t neglected to mention his own failures as well. Though, taking a jab at himself had been the easy part, wrecking his family’s sympathy and shoving their greatest mistakes in their face had shaken him with even more grains of guilt. _I’m even shittier than I thought I was._

 _Fuck you._ After plopping his fingers through Liam’s soft curls, Lip wrapped around the bathroom, and Ian quickly and quietly, snagged the coke from under the bed, and went quickly downstairs using only the pads of his feet for support, softening his steps to a light tap. He was by the linen closet as soon as he’d reached the bottom of the stairs, pulling the other, untouched pound from underneath the scrambled towels that Liam’s curious fingers had mussed together. He held both with sweaty, nervous palms and scanned the room for somewhere else to put it until Brad could pick it up.

            He couldn’t stuff it anywhere in his room, that was out of the question, Lip still sometimes slept there and he couldn’t take the risk of him finding it, and not with Liam in there too, God, no, not with Liam in there. The bathroom would be too tricky, and under the stairs would’ve been a good place, if his kid brother wasn’t one to play there. He could put it in the closet next to it though, the shelves were higher, and the corners more dark.

            He opened it up wide, and pushed fine powder at the crook of the closet on the highest shelf, hidden by the wall. It was invisible in the crowded case of shelves, and he closed the doors gently, before Lip took the last step down and landed his feet behind the couch, not granting Ian a word. Ian knew that if he had, it probably would’ve just been some splatter of profanity anyways. _Maybe I should apologize, say a small_ “ _I’m sorry_ ” _before he leaves._

  * _He hates you. No point. Stupid. Worthless. He hates you. No._



            In defiance of the coaxing whispers of his voices, he held Lip with his own, before his brother gathered his things and left. “Hey, I’m sorry about all that shit I said this morning. You know I didn’t mean any of it.” Ian said it as he scratched the white hairs on his arm in meek strokes. Lip’s face contorted with annoyance and he pushed a pack of cigarettes in the back of his pocket, saving one to hold between his teeth.

           “You say that to everyone else you cussed out? You’ve been acting like a fucking dick, man.” His words were stiff with anger and accusation. Ian looked down, abashed at his brother’s brutal honesty.

           “I know.” It was all he said, and Ian could feel Lip’s features soften at the utterance.

          “Where you about to go?” Ian looked at himself up and down, dressed nicely, in a clean black t-shirt, acid washed jeans, and dark boots, a jingle of gold dog tags hung around his neck and his hair was slicked with water and gel. The time grew closer to eight, and his heart failed him for a moment. Lip wouldn’t like to hear it, but he did not withhold the truth.

           “Party, with Brad.”

           “The hell’s Brad?” Ian gnawed on the inside of his lip.

           “Guy I used to work with at the club, he was with me—the other night.” The lines near the top of Lip’s nose scrunched together, and he looked to Ian in incredible aggravation.

           “The guy groping you while I screamed at you the other night?” Ian only took a deep breath. _Well, when you put it like that…_ The look of shame on his face was enough to confirm Lip’s question. “Fuck, Ian, you need to get your shit together—I mean, do you think Mickey would’ve wanted to see you screw up your life like this?” He knew all Ian would care about would be Mickey, and he catered to it with a light tone, though Ian could feel the touch of manipulation.

           “ _Don_ ’ _t._ ” Ian tried his best to stay calm. “Don’t talk about him. You didn’t know him like I did.”

           “Bullshit Ian, I might’ve not been as fuckin’ close to  him as you were, but I knew him enough to know that ruining your fucking life wouldn’t be something he’d be okay with.” Ian’s lips were like magnets against his teeth, and he worked to pull them apart and swear at his brother. _So much for patching things up._ It was as though they’d begun to weave the divide between them and someone had come and snipped the stitches before they were completely sewn together.

           “Fuck off, man.” The screech of wheels broke the silence between them and the honk of a horn squeaked from the outside of the house. Ian glared at Lip with piles of disdain, before he swept a light gray hoodie onto his shoulders, zipping it up half way. Lip only whispered “fuck”  and left out before Ian could. When the ginger did clamber down the porch steps, Lip was half way down the street, only glancing for a second back at his younger brother with disapproval.

           They squished the front seat forward to let Ian into the back through the couplet of doors, as the passenger’s seat was kept by Brad’s brother, Tristan. His tree trunk arms looked huge in the confinement of the car, and Brad chuckled as they drove off. “Drag race on the Southside. Might not be able to see all of it, but it’ll be funny to see all those fuckers drive off.”

          “Who’s hosting it?” Ian asked, buckling his seat belt. Tristan’s voice poured from the front as he swiped his thumb across his phone, the screen’s light glowing up his face.

          “Uh, this guy I know, Quentin, lifts cars off people.” Ian gave a slow nod, and Brad drove with a lack of care that could only come from Brad, deeper into the south side of Chicago, _He’s probably already a little buzzed,_ Ian thought as they pulled up to the ratty house.

           It was a neighborhood rougher than Ian’s. The streets smelled so strongly of smoke, he could almost taste it in the air. The group of house partiers holding red cups reached into the front yard, and he was fairly certain he’d heard the sound of gunshots pop in the distance.

           “Hey, when do you plan on getting back all that coke?” Ian was itching for it to be out of his house. He would’ve asked when they were still there so he could give it to him, but his thoughts had been too clouded with reruns of the conversation he’d had with Lip.

           “Ah, tomorrow, probably, not in much of a rush to get it out, you don’t care do you?” Ian didn’t answer.

           Cars ran up the streets, their engines running in loud boasting bouts of smoke. A stripe of cheap, poorly decorated Camaros and rusted, raggedy Mustangs chopped the rode and Ian’s heart accelerated, filled with both nerves and excitement. Most of the time they were just drinking and getting high, but this might’ve actually given them a show worth watching while they were drunk enough to find it funny.

           Though, when Brad said “drag race,” his mind had been full with scenes from _Fast and Furious,_ but this was not a Vin Diesel movie. This was a ghetto part of Chicago congested with gang members and prostitutes, and even though he’d grown up on the Southside, and had lived with both prostitutes _and_ gangsters, he knew those prostitutes and gangster. These people were strangers and mugged him with carnivorous eyes.

           The room that greeted them inside of the house was dotted with cheap women, and hunky gangsters, golden chains hung around necks, and sagging pants fit pot smoking guys, hip-hop pumping through the room. Ian noted the black and yellow bandanas that hung from some of the pockets of the Hispanic population, as well as a few black guys that were scattered along the crowd. He’d lived in Chicago to know what those colors meant. _Latin Kings._ Their presence was more of an annoyance than anything else, _don_ ’ _t want any stupid gang drama to ruin the night._

           The weight of violent stares hung like steel chains, and looped around the entire house. Ian felt a bit unsettled as a tan skinned man with eyes tough like shiny bullets shot a fierce look his way. His face was tattooed with large letters in gothic script that Ian could not make out in the dim light of the room. It was not the sort of event that Ian hadn’t expected to enter. _Well, Brad is a drug dealer_ , he reminded himself.

           “You sure, this place is all right?” Ian questioned as he and Brad came into the house. Brad nodded.

           “Yeah, yeah, but you might wanna take that jacket off, and that chain.” Ian glanced down to the gray of his jacket, he hadn’t bothered to mind the yellow crown printed on the breast of it, and he immediately shrugged it off and pulled his chain from his neck, throwing it on an empty chair. All else he was wearing was black, as long as the two colors didn’t clash, he figured he’d be fine. “Come on, you’re Southside, don’t act like you’ve never seen some hard hoodlum slinging dope on the corner.”

           “Yeah, but I actually knew those people.” Brad gave a half smile and held Ian’s hand, pulling him through the crowd, they both sniffed out the hard liquor with muzzles like bloodhounds. They threw back shots of Hennessey, and drunkenness grew in Ian like plump bread in the oven.

           They waved their hands in ridiculous gestures and tried not to act too gay in front of the predominately straight mess of men. Contrarily, they fit more in with the girls, possible whores, their asses rattled in tight bodycons and ripped booty shorts. They danced for a short and sweet duration of time before Brad pulled on Ian’s bicep with enough roughness to break his arm, Ian following with a laugh and intoxicated joy.

           They approached a heavily pierced Hispanic guy with a bald head made glassy with tattoos. The intricate artwork on his skull was crowned with a folded cloth of gold. “Hey, yo, Sergio, what’s up?” The guy nodded at Brad and his smile glittered with gold caps on the bottom row of his teeth, his frame was slim and tall.

          “White boy, what’s good?” His gold teeth chimed. “You still got that snow?” His accent was strong, but not so much that it spoiled his speech.

          “Not on me, can hook you up later, if you want.” Sergio nodded his tattooed head. “I got some pot though, if you wanna smoke up.”

          “Nah, I’m straight, ‘been hittin’ on some already, Miguel said he got some PCP, but he comes stupid out tha mouth, so I ain’t gon’ worry ‘bout that frontin’ ass bitch.” He finally gestured to Ian, “Brought Slim Shady wit’ you, huh?” Ian laughed, and slopped his hair back, Brad chuckled.

          “Nah, man, fuck, he’s a friend, don’t live too far from here, actually.”

          “His albino ass is Southside?” Ian nodded, tipping a drink in his mouth that he held in his cheeks before swallowing.

          “Born and raised.” The spirits made him stupid brave and corny, the type of guy he would’ve cringed at otherwise. Clumps of people were pushing themselves past each other to reach outside. “People leavin’ this early?” The clock only read that it was midnight.

           “Nah, they fixin’ ta hit that pedal, everyone’s ‘bout to go watch us speed off man, I’m taking my own ride on, head straight up, swishin’ on ‘em, no beefin’ just for fuckin’ around, you feel me?” _Sorta._ His lingo mashed together, and the alcohol didn’t help with Ian’s comprehension. Though, Ian _had_ been able to take away that they were about to burn rubber in a stupid race on the street. _Finally_ , he thought, _seems like they been running those cars forever._

           “All right if we ride along?” He broke through the loud music. Sergio tilted his head to the side like a confused dog.

           “Ride wit’ me when we go on out?”

           Ian nodded, “Yeah, I mean, if Brad’s down.” Ian looked to Brad, and the stripper’s face split into a gracious grin. He knew Brad would be down. That was, unless he wanted to look like the tame one of the two, and Ian was pretty sure he’d rather die than fit the face of a square.

           “Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure,” he said it as though it was no problem, and the gangster showed his golden teeth when he smiled, the yellow metal glaring under the dim lights.

           “A’ight, if y’all white motherfuckas really ‘bout it.” Ian nodded, lighting a joint that sat on the top of the counter they stood next too. Weed crawled his lungs, and smoke strings swam around in the air from his mouth.

           “Just ‘cause I’m white don’t mean I’m a bitch.” He felt Mickey in his words, a sample of his street speak puffing into him. He thanked his ghost for it. Had the Milkovich been there, he would’ve become one with the crowd, given his family was a swirl of thugs and he rolled with gangbangers and prison thugs. _He’d know how to fit in here._ Ian barely did.

            They left out with everyone else, following Sergio, in his sagging jeans, fit with black and gold accents that waved a flag of affiliation, making it all the more obvious when he pulled the bandana from around his head and tied the cloth over his mouth, knotting it behind his ears. They tossed fast steps down a fleet of cement stairs and Sergio threw open the door to his black Camaro, rumbling in the harsh music and wild nature of night.

            “You guys ain’t gonna watch them go off?” The question came from Tristan when Ian and Brad had fought past the crowd of spectators, curled around the two cars sitting next to each other in the middle of the street, phones out and blinking.

            “We’re ridin’ with Sergio,” Ian answered, throwing a grin his way.

            Brad’s brother raised his eyebrows, impressed, he gave a rough laugh, crossing his arms, “Have fun with that, you guys are gonna be scared shitless.”

            Brad took a sip from a full bottle of Jack Daniels that had been sitting on top of a white folding table placed in the yard, and Ian grabbed it once he’d gulped down his portion. The engine of the cars roared, and Ian chuckled, stoned, and drunk. He poured the caramel drink into his throat, savoring the scratch of it. He was the first by the back door of the car, swinging it open, he pushed Brad in with eager gestures, and smiles licked with liquor. Brad conformed to his motions fast, crawling into the seat behind the driver’s, Ian curled himself next to him, and closed them inside. The interior was smooth, refined, and dark. _Nice,_ Ian thought, and Brad gave him quick, powerful kiss on his lips.

            And then a gunshot rang.

            And the front wheels of the car yanked them into the wind. The speed increasing in quick increments, soon enough they were cutting the road at ninety miles per hour, and faster and faster, dragging along the road, rolling around other parked cars of scraggly attractiveness, painted to hide some of their blemishes. A black thing with yellow stripes road past them in a streak of speed, and Sergio slammed on the gas. Based upon the personal way he pulled himself along the road, he was the competitive type, to say the least.

            They were approaching one-thirty when they zipped past a road that wrapped around a slip of convenient stores, stuffed on the end of the neighborhood, crooked and aged from years of wear and tear, burnt tires, and broken bottles. The open window let in gales of wind that tugged on their skin as strong as a tornado storm. Ian reveled in it.

             His mind was a whirl of rushed, and exhilarated blurbs. He was flying, both with his mood and his amazement at the entire experience. He could not say the voices had stopped, the weed had plucked bits of paranoia from his mind and shoved their speech in the bowl of his head, but it was hard for him to hear them with how fast he was going. For a moment, he emerged from the window, twisting his body to look at the car tailing them, inching closer and closer, until the engine revved and finally managed to violate the space in front of them. Ian revolved around in the car’s direction, flipping them off with a loud swear before collapsing back into the car.

            The cars continued to soar through the scratchy pavement, leaving stripes of dust in their path. The other stolen sports car continued to sweep past them, carrying forward in a dangerously hard speed, passionately swift, and rough, very rough. And when one of its back tires was punctured by the blast of a bullet, it skid across the pavement in equal roughness.

            Sergio’s swear was muffled under the fabric when a red hooptie caught up to his car, a gun pointed out of the passenger seat. “Roll up the fucking windows!” Their driver barked. It shocked the boys in the back. Ian and Brad both smashed their fingers to roll up the glass, and in the moment of ringing gunshots the windows seemed to draw up with the speed of a wounded sloth.

            “What the fuck?” The blaring radio quieted Ian’s screams, as he sank deeper into the seat. He and Brad hung closer to the ground, scrunching themselves further into the car to avoid the oncoming blasts.

            “La Raza! King Rivals!” Ian didn’t know whether to swear or roll his eyes. _I knew some stupid fucking gang shit-storm would end up wrecking shit._

            Sergio pulled a glock from his dash and shook his hand out of the front window as he fired out at the rival’s car, housed by men covered with white and green bandanas tied around their faces like Sergio’s. The bullets clanked on the metal bodies, and riddled dents into each others’ exterior, though no physical damage sounded from the shooting. A single round smashed the window shield, but the rest was left untouched, in the equal exchange of gunshots. But when, Sergio’s rounds ran short and his vantage unfavorable, he lacked any other choice but to roll up the glass, and swipe the road to escape the persistent feuding thugs.

            For a while it was a monotonous chase. Running circles through neighborhoods and resting roads. Neither participant was making much progress in eliminating the other. And the reality of their deadlock only increased the violent thrusts of speed, amplifying the chaos. The standoff shifted into a vicious war of attrition.

            Small jab, after small jab, it seemed to last forever when the bumping began. Tiny attacks and tickling swishes of metal clashed together and made an ugly screeching sound that burned Ian’s ears. Both of the cars were losing the preciousness of their paint and the warm shape to their vehicles. Furthering equal damage on both ends until the wear had still managed to become too much of a draw.

            “Holy shit!” Ian belted. He twirled around the back window to see them at the foot of the car, inching closer in the same fashion they’d used at their side, small bumps, differentiating their attacks with their gut wrenching closeness to the tires.

            It happened like a movie.

            The drag of the Raza’s front wheel caught underneath the King’s spinning rim, and picked onto it with a cold tear at both of them, prying each car in strange straggles that their bodies banged into. Ian, seeing the outcome of the blow, choked a seatbelt between his fingers and locked himself in. The heavy impact stunted their muscles, and the slope of the road, exaggerated the grip of gravity.

            The wheel streaked along the pavement in shrieks that clashed in their collision and seemed slow and dreamy. Time finally sped up when the car began to roll. Turning over in the street, the Camaro flopped around in bouncing bangs that tumbled over dark asphalt, heaving harder and harder into the sides of the vehicle.

             Ian’s right shoulder fell into the side of the car with each round, and while he clenched his fist into the crook of it, to at least keep it stuck into the corner of the car, his left hand threw itself against the back window in careless bangs that broke his knuckles. The glass shattered more and more each time, shards kissing his skin with every blow, stinging the side of his head, and cutting the back of his neck, he could feel his skin split behind him.

             The gangbanging driver, loose and without stability, smashed through the wind shield, tumbling around in the front, his head bopped around like a pair of sneakers in a washing machine, hitting every part in the front, his body shook like a rag doll. Brad’s head did a similar motion onto the roof of the car, the party monster’s sides ramming into both Ian and the left window, until the car landed finally, skidding across the street on its side in an askew lump of metal. The other car had dived into the brick of a red and white house, far from their resting place. _Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck._

            Ian blinked in blurs. Brad’s skull trickled blood, and his head banging had knocked him out in a heavy slump, though Ian could tell he was alive, given the drips of blood moved faster with every breath he took.

            He could not say the same for Sergio. His face was stuck with blood, and pierced by daggers of glass, shoved inside the flesh of his cheeks, faucets of red spilled from his wounds, and Ian’s eyes pooled. The man’s mouth gurgled crimson iron, and his nostrils flared in and away through the wet mess that crossed his face, both his eyes were busted and bruised, and his cheekbone was caved in an impossible crush. The only other time he’d someone die was while he was working, but compared to the pleading woman inside the car, this was much, _much_ worse.

            It struck him with a distraction worse than the pain that throbbed throughout his entire body. The bandana around Sergio’s mouth had fallen around his neck like an ascot, now more red than yellow. His eyes were rheumy, and edged in the darkness of blood. He looked to Ian with a baby’s gleam, and tears diluted the harshness of the splattered red near his eyelashes. It was a look that meant he knew he was going to die, a look of accepted mortality and enough pain to only wish the relief it would bring. And then the flare of his nostrils stopped, and Ian choked on a sob he could not cry.

            He hadn’t known him longer than a few hours, but his death still hurt him, scarring his mind with pictures of mutilated flesh and torn ligaments, broken with jagged glass and blunted with hard surfaced doors. His maimed form splayed across the extent of the driver and passenger seat, calm, still, and hideous. Once he was dead, and Ian had drawn his demise into his mind, the distraction surmounting the pain of his own wounds dissipated in thick waves, tearing down the sheets of diversion without warning.

            “ _FUCK._ ” His arm was a crushed and disfigured mess against the side of the car after slamming into it several times. He had no memory of anything that felt even remotely comparable to what strangled his arms, bound in shackles of excruciation. There was no question that the entirety of it was broken.

            His knuckles on his left hand twinged in keys of torture, as were the ones on his right hand, along with several digits, that just didn’t feel _right,_ though now he lacked the bravery to look at whatever splinters it was made of. Tears mixed with the streaks of blood along his face, and he cried in hard, heaving sobs that cracked away his drug fix. _Fuck_ , _fucking shit, dammit._ He couldn’t order his thoughts and so they came in collections of swears. _Okay Ian_ , he needed a plan, he needed to take it step by step, or he’d inevitably fall into an irreversible panic. _Just take it step by step._

  * _You know this is your fault. It’s your fault. Dumbass. Cocksucker. YOUR FAULT! Your fault, your fault._



_And ignore those stupid, fucking voices._ At his current point, he just needed to get Brad taken care of, whether or not he made it was beside the point, he couldn’t stand to see another person die, and he could not stand to live with knowing Brad was dead because of him. _Means I would’ve killed two people, three if I counted Sergio._

           When he was JROTC, they’d memorized a problem solving process, simple, and stupid, he’d thought it was common sense when he was a teenager. But in a place like this he could see how the feeling of any sense, any normality could so easily seep from skin and only leave beats of horror for someone to look at. It wasn’t hard to remember, given he’d recited it to himself a dozen times, and his EMT training had instilled a similar principal.

           He identified the problem, _I can barely move and I need to get me and Brad out of here or we might die._  He gathered what he knew, _I’m in a car with two incapacitated guys worth nothing but their breath, and one of them has already lost that. If I don’t get help we’re_ definitely _going to die._ And the rest consisted of defining the possible outcomes and solutions, before quickly and effectively putting them into play. But what the hell was his _solution_? What the fuck was he supposed to do? Jesus Christ, he could barely move, he couldn’t help anyone if he couldn’t help himself. _I can call 9-1-1._ Call 9-1-1. That’s what he needed to do. He quickly noted it as his objective, and tried with piercing pain to fulfill it.

           Hissing steam engine breath, he tried hard to use the less broken hand on his left side to undo the seatbelt, screaming as he pressed pressure onto the button, he felt as though his fingers were going to snap off his hands if he weighed them down anymore. _Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god._ He mouthed it too.

  * _Your fault! Your fault! Your fault!_



_Well, this time, they aren’t wrong_. He managed to shove it far enough so that the belt popped from the buckle, and slammed into his raw shoulder. He sat in silent misery for a breathing second, and then he cried out as hard as a wailing child. He needed to shrug his broken shoulder out of the belt.

          He did it quick, like ripping off a band aid, holding in his scream this time, what peeled away from the harshness of the car door was the most mangled thing on his body. Free of all its paleness, in a black stain of blood, his fingers formed a distorted shape, cracked in angels that looked more like something one might see on a math test than someone’s hand. _Fuck, fucking horrible, fucking disgusting, Jesus shit, what the fuck Ian_?

          He surrendered more sobs that choked his mouth and stabbed him, dropping his hand with stupid carelessness, and garbled a thick “ _FU-GHK!_ ” as his crushed fingers fell onto the rough of his jeans, and he immediately returned them to hover in the air.  He stuck his less soiled hand into his pocket, searching for his phone. He couldn’t stifle the shatters of his voice as he recovered it.

          The cushion of the seat had spared the screen, and Ian could not help but laugh in a miserable cry that his phone had survived the crash. He suddenly felt he could understand, with empathetic pain, the look of wanting to die on Sergio’s face _._

          It did not come in waves or pieces, it was just there, it was just _there_ , staying there, constant, endless, his own infinite hell. _Don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this._

          He pushed the home button, breathing in sharp puffs that blew up his cheeks and deflated them just as fast. He swept a thumb across the bottom of the screen, releasing another tear in the cry of pain that shook his body. He pressed on the small green phone icon, and dialed nine, his hand shaking so badly that it accidentally pressed onto a three.

          On a normal day he would’ve huffed and pressed the back button, but now he released another bellow and quivered as he tapped the square to delete it. With every movement he felt as though he was slowly dying. He pressed into his phone the two ones that followed, though once the number was fully dialed, and he tapped the call button, his vision begun to turn into black splats. Maybe he actually was dying.

         “Chicago 9-1-1, where’s the location of the emergency?”

          He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything, but release garbled fits of spit and blood. _Fuck JROTC. Fuck EMT Training. Fuck Brad. Fuck this stupid fucking car. And, for the love of God, fuck me for ever thinking this was a good idea._ He was pretty sure he’d released all his fucks before he died. _I’ll see you soon, Mick._

            “Hello? Is anyone there?” He couldn’t.

            The voices. They were screaming, louder than this morning, louder than ever. They cut the spots of his own mind in callous snips.

            The black flashes were finally drawing in long pulsations that pulled him into a dark pit, all light dissipating. The smell of his own blood was near the only sensation he was left to feel, outside of the audio blaring inside his mind. They did not relent to chant the same mantra in slick slivers before all consciousness fled.

  * _YOUR FAULT! THIS IS YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING FAULT! YOUR FAULT!_



             They were not wrong.


	10. MICKEY

            A month had passed since he and Enzo mugged a bougie tourist with boat shoes.

            Mickey was still plagued by thoughts of red hair, tints of pale skin and warm kisses. And though, the days spilled beams of warmth over him, he woke to the same cold sheets and ice crusted heart. _Time supposed to fuckin’ heal, right_? He didn’t know if simply hadn’t been long enough, or if the saying was pure bullshit, but either way he thought, _fuck that_ , and coped only by teaching himself to ignore the woeful intrusions of Ian Gallagher _._

            He and Enzo had continued to get to know each other. Considering they lived and worked in the same building and Enzo failed to give up on teaching Mickey Spanish, they spent a lot of time together. Exchanging more times of their past, the way Enzo explained the reason for his situation made it all seem quite humble, a surprise considering his unrelenting, arrogant nature.

            He’d been introduced to the business of international drug trade by his uncle, Marco. He’d hardly known him, though he decided to get in touch when his mother got sick and he required a way to financially support her that was less than minimum wage while still trying to make it through high school. His father hadn’t ever been in the picture. _Lucky he wasn’t_ , Mickey had thought, immediately thinking of the relationship with his own _._

            Enzo had met Marcello in the drug business. They were both teenagers, nervous about what they were getting into. It was no surprise their shared circumstance brought them closer together. Somewhere along the road they’d fallen in love. Enzo hadn’t shed much light on all of what went down working in the chain of organized crime, but it wasn’t so much to assume it had its fair share of ugliness.

            At twenty seven years old, he’d been hopping through half the countries in the Americas, all in avoidance of international officials, grabbing a few drug jobs here and there that evidently paid loudly. Ecuador, Chile, New York, Argentina, Texas, strings of nations and cities that seemed to run on forever. He hadn’t lived in Mexico but a year or so, keeping tenant to the hotel, it was sort of the perfect place for him to stay, bringing in both profit and a place to crash every night. Mickey hadn’t seen much of a difference in the year that would follow his own migration, sleeping in the toasty springs of a hotel bed, trying his best to lay low. But that was before he’d awoken to an alert on the news that included his ugly mugshot, looking back at him with lazy, hopeless eyes.

           He’d fallen asleep with the news on. It was all in Spanish, but Enzo had suggested listening to it more and more would eventually help with pronunciation (though he found it often worked better as a sedative than learning material). His sleep that night was strong and crashed into him. Waking up at four-thirty in the morning, only by a need to piss that made him angry with his plump bladder’s interference. He sat up with a foggy head and rubbed his eyes, freezing as he blinked into vision the sight of his picture plastered on the screen. He read in clean, bold, Spanish text, something about the “ _Funcionarios_ _de_ _Estados_ _Unidos_ _,_ ” “ _Mikhailo Milkovich_ ,” and he being “ _en la área de_ _mexicana._ ”

           His heart constrained in a nervous choke, fighting cable ties of worry. He could’ve cried. _They know where I am, they know where the fuck I am._ It was all he could think as he popped from the covers. They knew that he was in _fucking_ Mexico. It could only be a matter of time before someone recognized him, reported him to the police and the feds came knocking on his door to throw his arms behind his back and gift him with shiny silver bracelets.

            He grunted in puffs of profanity and paced through the extent of his room, banging on bits of furniture, and scratching his bicep raw. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Eventually they’d find him, somehow, someway, they would. And he could _not_ go back to prison, not now. He’d be put in some maximum confinement hell-hole, side by side solitary cells next to mass murderers and terrorist-rapist-fucks. He could move, jump from country to country, like Enzo, but with what money? To do that meant robbing and scamming his way across the continent, only leaving trails of more crime for them to sniff out. Enzo had the money to skip around. All Mickey had was the few thousand bucks Ian had left him, plus a little from working at the hotel. _This fugitive thing is already fucking me up,_ and the alternative that was simmering inside him, bubbling behind everything else in fearful reluctance made him more anxious than anything latter mentioned.

 _Only a hundred bucks_ _down_. But he doubted it would be as easy as a hundred bucks. Everything Enzo would have to help him set up. He refused to let the guy do it all by himself, it was _Mickey’s_ problem, after all. And with everything he’d have to do to make it work, to make sure no one found the fuck out, there was no doubt it would be a bitch of a thing to do. _But I might be able to do it_ , he reasoned. He had escaped prison, maybe faking his death wouldn’t be _so_ much harder. The thought made him shy, nervous, if he did it, it was all written in stone. But, he could not let his sheepish fears hinder the usefulness of the possible ploy.

 _If it’s the only fucking way_ , he hated to admit that the idea scared him, but it did. Not because of the encumbering nature of the potential ramifications, but the utter suckling sweetness the picture held. Disappearing, clearing his name, it opened doors for him that he’d thought had been completely shut. _The States. Chicago. English. The cold. Maybe Ian._ His bottom lip felt rubbery between his teeth and he gave a heave of a sigh, glancing at a short stack of money in his open backpack. He was a Milkovich, he didn’t get a happy ending, there was no way this might turn out well, but all this reasoning was pointless. He’d subconsciously made up his mind as soon as the thought entered his head.

          He pulled the money from the backpack, and stuck on a shrug of pants and a dirty shirt, lugging on boots before he rushed down the hall. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding in panic as he descended the staircase in quick stomps, banging his knuckles on the hardness of Enzo’s door. His breath came to him in subtle pants, and he heard the Brazilian fumbling around in grumbling swears. Enzo swung the door open in only his boxers, his lean form seemed sore in the sun’s morning stare, peeping through the blinds behind him.

           “ _Droga,_ Mickey,” Enzo swore. “What do you want? It is five in the morning, I just got to sleep after working all night—”

            “I need you to fuckin’ do it,” Mickey finally caught his breath and tried to not fight his tongue as his speech exited in rapid fire. “Like now, I can’t go back there, I fucking can’t. I can maybe do part of it myself, but, _fuck_ , man, I don’t know what else to fuckin’ do, I—” Enzo stalled his speech with a tight pinch of closed eyes and an outstretched hand, gesturing for the Chicago boy to come in. Mickey darted into the room.

            “Slow down and take deep breath,” Mickey did so with a touch of aggression, irritated by his patronizing voice. Enzo’s hands floated through the air in a languid motion as he asked, “What happened?”

            “They know I’m in Mexico, fuck if I know how they know, but it’s fuckin’ wiggin’ me the fuck out, man.” Mickey refrained the urge to break his knuckles on the wall, and ignored the tightness inside his chest, scratchy and uncomfortable, like a nail file scraping underneath his skin. Enzo nodded a face full of arrogant boredom, grown from the vines of years’ experience.

            “It always happens, why I move so much. Lucky for me they still think I am in Panama.” He pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table and bit it before lighting it. He offered Mickey one, who shook his head in worried wags. He could barely breathe as it was, stuffing his lungs with nicotine wouldn’t be of much help. Enzo’s stare glazed over the money, suffocated in Mick’s scared, sweaty hand. He searched the depths of shaken blue eyes, and looked him up and down, as if measuring his seriousness. “I can,” he vowed, “but are you sure you want to do this?”

            “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.” _Wouldn’t have ran down here otherwise_.  “I can’t go back to prison, Enzo.” A bronze hand pulled the money from Mickey’s fist and counted it, smoothing it into wrinkled slaps of paper that he set on the small dresser in front of a mirror. Mickey’s gut twinkled looking at it.

He did it, he actually did it. He’d written himself a sentence, and glancing at the stack on the dresser, he didn’t know what it all would entail, but hopefully it meant he wouldn’t be facing another sort of sentence, one that would not be as kind. Of course, it was not yet in permanence, he could say something now, utter a word of protest and retreat, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut, and let Enzo open his.

            “I’ll help you. But first,” this time he forced the cigarette between Mickey’s fingers and passed him a lighter; Mick lit it, “calm down. They know you’re in Mexico, they do not know you are in Manzanillo. They will not look for you here, it is very unlikely. First they will search through Laredo and Tijuana, most likely. Just hope no one will recognize you.” Mickey considered this and nodded. At his transition from quaking man child back into a rugged fugitive, Enzo released a sigh. “Now, do you still have the car you drove here?”

            “Yeah,” Mickey grunted, smoke pooling from his mouth. Enzo took an annoyed breath and put his cigarette out on the wood of his dresser. His brows rose in exasperated concern.

            “That’s going to be a problem.”

             Before the sun had risen, when the docks were still full with ghosts and isolation, Enzo peened off the license plate, and they drove the car to a wide cement docking port, clear from any surveillance. They pushed the ugly green thing into the ocean. “Cannot afford any chance,” Enzo muttered, bashing the license plate into a metal fold, with the same hammer he’d used to pry it off. He held it until they reached the shore near the hotel, and tossed it with hard force into the sea. It plopped into the water and sunk in dark shadows until nothing of it was left but a tiny gleam from the sun that penetrated the green waters.

 

“You should grow your hair out,” Enzo’s voice was casual when he came from down the hall, strolling behind Mickey at the desk, he ran fierce fingers through the black of his hair and Mickey shied from his hand. Though the rake of his nails had felt nice on his scalp.

            “I ain’t got the time to grow it out, I need it done now,” Mickey reminded him, flipping through a catalog of Spanish text he couldn’t read. He gravitated more toward the pictures and sat in bored flicks of pages, waiting for the same greasy guests they always received to walk through the door.

            “We can cut it all off.” Mickey’s head jerked to look at Enzo at the absurdity.

            “Fuck no, I’ll look like a fucking skinhead.”

            “Then grow it out.” It was a command, and Mickey bristled with unease at his tone of voice. “Your hair grows fast anyway, it’s longer since you have been here.” Mickey nodded.

            “Yah, but I need it done within a couple weeks, and it ain’t gone change so much in that amount a time.” Enzo glared at him, plucking a yellow apple from a basket of fruit set out on the desk, he took an annoyed chomp, and chewed lightly as he spoke.

            “That’s not going to happen. And you plan to go back to Chicago?” Mickey shrugged, his mouth about to form an insecure “yes” that Enzo caught before it left his lips. “It will take longer than couple weeks,’ the shortest I give you is three months, but that is not reliable either.” He waved around the piece of fruit as he spoke, and swallowed small bites. “You know how much I must do? Faking papers, grabbing a body, making sure there is no possible way they could use DNA identification. Then I have to disguise you, and since you want to go back to Chicago, I must get rid of _anything_ , unique to you—those tattoos on your fingers,” he waved a hand toward them, and Mickey looked down at the ink on his knuckles, “those got to go. Changing your hair, your clothes, job, fitting you into an entire different personality, and _caralho_ , Mickey, if the _políciais_ do not register the body as yours that process must be completely redone. Do you understand why this may take some time?” Mickey let go of a humbled breath and nodded, gnawing on the edge of his lip.

             He hadn’t really considered it that much, all he knew was he needed the cops to think he wasn’t alive. _At least he knows what the fuck he’s doin’_ , Mickey thought. Though the condescending tone in his voice was infuriating, he couldn’t let himself to his anger, not with all Enzo was promising to do for him.

            Enzo sighed. “I can probably have you pronounced dead within the next few months, but I don’t think you’ll be able to return to your country before summer.”

            “That don’t matter, I just need to get those cocksuckers off my back so I don’t end up in the fuckin’ can again.” A visitor broke the doors, and the phone chimed. The two both assumed an immediate façade of politeness. Enzo throwing away the apple into a gray trashcan behind them, he smiled with painfully bright eyes and answered the ringing phone, whilst Mickey tended to a woman with hair in black ringlets, cut short above her shoulders, she asked for a single bed and bath.

            “ _Si,_ _señorita_ ,” Mickey answered, taking her credit card and swiping it through the register. His Spanish had been getting better. It still was bland, and stuck with the mispronunciation of a boy from Chicago, but he knew enough to check in guests with ease and routine conversation.

            The woman left with a small smile down the hall, flipping the plastic card in her hand. Enzo rested his elbows on the top of the desk. The air around him had been strange today; from the time he’d snaked around and ran aggressive fingers through Mickey’s hair to his lack of arrogant quips throughout the morning. Something was bothering him, something that didn’t have to do with Mickey’s unrealistic expectancy in the quickness of faking his death.

            “I’ve got to go to the post office,” Enzo stated as Rosa came from outside, carrying her short wickered purse. As Mickey had worked with and gotten to know her, he’d found that she was one of the sweetest women he’d ever met. She spoke splatters of English in adaptation to the revolving American tourists that twisted through the doors, and while it was not well, and they often had to exchange bits of each other’s language to understand one another completely, she’d never lacked kindness. Enzo looked to Mickey, “Do you want to come?”

            “Not like I got shit to do.” It was Rosa’s shift, and as he left out the door, following Enzo, she wriggled her brows at both of them, teasingly.

            She’d been able to gather, as any human being would, that two people that shared interlocking sexual preferences and deemed themselves as “friends” seemed too often develop into something more, especially when both of them were young, attractive, and alone in their array of possible sex interests. Mexico wasn’t exactly an ideal place to be gay. Rosa was more than tolerant—not that Enzo would hire anyone who wasn’t—but, the place seemed to lack any sense of normality toward the thing. Of course, it was nothing Mickey wasn’t used to, growing up on the Southside. And though Mickey and Enzo both did their best to assure her that the Brazilian was devoted to Marcello, she didn’t buy it. Marcello was in Brazil after all, Mickey was right there.

            They took Enzo’s black Mercedes to the post office, a sparkle of onyx through the encasement of beige sandstones and dusty reds. The car cut the air in quick strides, something more expensive than Mickey would probably ever own. They stopped at the gas station and Enzo removed three plastic canisters from the back of the car, pumping showers of gasoline into them until they were full to bursting. He shoved them back into the trunk.

            “What’s ‘at for?” Mickey asked when Enzo reloaded himself inside the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him.

            “If I’m going to make you look like you’re dead, how do you think I surpass facial recognition, fingerprints? Get bodies, burn them. I’m just going to burn the entire building down though,” he spoke, pulling the car into drive, “it’s shitty and I can get much money on the insurance.” Mickey nodded, still not entirely understanding the whole thing, even though Enzo talked of it as though it was a heinous burden, he did everything effortlessly.

            “Where you gonna get a body?” Enzo scoffed at the question, as though it was blatantly obvious.

            “Morgue.”

            “Won’t it look a little sketchy if I was the only one in there?”

            “ _Sim_ , that’s why I get bod _ies_ , it has to look real.” Mickey’s gut wrenched at the entire thing. _I signed up for this shit._ He knew he’d brought it upon himself, but knowing so worried him no less.

            “A’ight, but what about the—”

            “Milkovich, I know what I am doing, I’ve done it before, I’ve been planned it for years.” Mickey nodded, suddenly he felt as though he’d shrunk to the size of a bullet under his frustration. The guy seemed to emanate invisible portents that beckoned people to leave him alone when he was pissed off. Something about the mystery locked in his eyes, the mean look of narcissism and the glamorous features that kept his face, it had an effect on people that Mickey didn’t entirely understand.

He yanked the car into the parking lot of the post office, slowing only to sharpen himself inside the faded lines, they climbed from the car and walked in together.

            Enzo fought the flow of time to reach his P.O. box, and his face lit when he saw his lover’s script scrawled on top of a yellow envelope. He opened it like a rabid dog and pulled the letter from its paper pocket. The date on it was a bit old, Mickey noticed, and he shuffled the rest of his mail with greedy fingertips, neglecting to pick up any other pieces of paper but the one from Marcello. Unfolding it, Mickey watched Enzo read the fast scribbles that ran across the sheet. His head bobbed along with the words, and he spoke sentences of Portuguese under his breath as he rubbed at his brow with the tips of his fingers.

            “What he say?” Enzo didn’t answer, walking out silently, he dropped the letter inside the trashcan, tearing it to shreds, as he did with everything Marcello sent. He never took any chances. He couldn’t with some of the things they wrote about.

             When the two exited the post office, Enzo’s face was tight with agitated sorrow. His lips were fixed into a frown, and Mickey could almost feel the way his stomach was fluttering just by looking at him. In the short time he’d known him, there were scarce occurrences that Enzo showed any dot of sadness, and every time he did somehow look down, in a way that wasn’t knotted with frustration, it was odd, almost uncharacteristic of him.

             He lit two cigarettes as they leaned near the corner of the building and passed one to Mickey. “He’s worried. He always talks of this, now and then, but now it is much more. He’s afraid I won’t come back, he’s afraid of the police, of me dying, of money running out. And, his trauma, the affects of it—I do not know how to say it in English, like, you know the after trauma, where you cannot, where it still hurts you, for while, do you know?”

            “PTSD?” Enzo puffed on his smoke.

           “Maybe.”

           “Post traumatic stress, or some shit?” He nodded, holding a half smile up as the white clouds streamed from his nostrils.

           “ _Sim_ , yes, that sounds right—PTSD,” he tasted the acronym on his tongue, and Mickey raised a brow.

           “What ‘appened to him?” The breath Enzo released was with burden and bad memory.

           “We were in San Diego,” he started, leaning further into the stone of the building, “we were there to do this deal with some humongous lord from the area. His house was enormous, a mansion, he had every luxury car you can think of. Maserati, Lamborghini, anything, bright and shiny. They were very nice…anyway, we were at his house. My uncle, he takes us with my cousins, and Marcello came along. The light was bright in our face that day, and it was nice to be in his home, the room cooled it off and he seemed so polite at first.

           “But, the deal did not go well, my uncle apparently had done something in the past to piss him off, and I cannot say what all led up to it, but he end up stabbing two of my cousins in the eyes, he twisted them out and shook them off the knife, they just dropped onto the ground. It looked like some sort of horror film—something like that. He shot another one, and I held Marcello’s head into my shoulder before he did it, but he still could hear the gunshot, and hear the man fall on the ground.

           “After all them were dead, my uncle surrenders to whatever this man wants, and he promises it to him, and says he will not anger him anymore, so he does not kill anyone else. It was more of a warning, you know?” He tapped ash onto the ground and stared at a crack in the pavement, clearly reliving the entire thing. “It still hurts with him, more than it does with me. I’m basically done with it, it happened almost six years ago, and I’ve seen so many things like that—you get used to it all after while.” His contemplative breath sunk through the air, ruminating on whatever he’d gotten used to. “Marcello never has seen anything before it, like that, or after. I wish I was there for him now.”

            Mickey looked to him uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to say. He seldom had people there for him, at least when it came to his emotional instability, and _he_ hadn’t seen _anything_ like that. Scraps of eyeballs on the floor, blood splashing the ground. The scene was brutal in his mind, and what he’d told Enzo behind the hotel seemed to blush at the landscape of gore he’d just painted. _Jesus H_.

            “Fuck, man,” Mick managed. “Whatcha gonna do? You gonna go see him?” Enzo nodded with vigor and finished the drag on his cigarette.

            “Yes, I’m going back there soon. I—” He took a deep breath, and looked into Mickey with an indecipherable glint in his amber eyes. “Take the car back to the hotel, I’m going to the store, I will be back there soon.” He held his hand on Mickey’s shoulder for longer than usual, slapped the keys into his palm and walked away.

            Mickey let a breath loose and bounced his heal off of the wall of the building. His open button-up blew in the wind behind him, and his sleeveless undershirt pulled at his skin as he walked back to the car. Violently pulling the door open, and shoving the key inside the ignition, he backed out and drove off.

            Enzo had been a good friend to him, in all his cockiness and rude commentary, he stood by him, and as much as Mick wanted to give that back, it was hard when he spent all his turmoil alone. _Can’t say I blame him, I do the same shit_. No one was supposed to know what Mickey was feeling, no one, except maybe, Gallagher, but even so, he didn’t have to tell him so often. He did when he wanted to, but most the time Ian could pick up on it. It wasn’t that hard. Enzo on the other hand…

            It was clear that he was unhappy. Anyone that left their true love in another country, trapped between prison and home, surviving in a foreign town with no one really to relate to could make someone a bit “unhappy.” Mickey was no stranger to this. But, it was hard for him to completely read all else that was going through his mind. He didn’t have it as bad as Enzo did, he hadn’t seen the shit he’d seen, his boyfriend wasn’t constantly spouting his doubts of their relationship’s durability, and Mickey had been so lucky to be stumble upon another longtime fugitive, willing to mentor him in on-the-run arts. Enzo didn’t have anyone to rely on. He treated Mickey just as he was, some runaway, novice, American kid, asking the big dogs for help.

            The conversation they’d had at the desk hadn’t helped with the insecurity of his own situation either, considering all of that which he hadn’t considered. Enzo could’ve done all of it in his sleep, or at least that’s the way he made it seem. And though most of the time he _did_ talk to Mickey with carelessness and spats of obvious action, the way he’d opened himself up today, speaking more than just fairytale reminiscence of he and his lover had shed light on a small hope that maybe Enzo was choosing to confide in him, to trust him, more than he’d admit.

             Mickey didn’t know, all he did know was that he still had his own demons to confront, and between juggling a death tactic, Enzo’s relationship issues, and his own bitch of a break up, well, more like abandonment. He wasn’t sure how what happened between he and Ian would be classified, maybe bits of both. Regardless, the jumbles of things crashing together were making his head hurt. _If that asshole wants to talk about that shit he can, but I ain’t gone ask_ , he settled.

He parked into the lot facing the hotel, and crawled from the driver’s seat, taking the keys with him inside. He pulled an extra card from under the desk that had Enzo’s room number written on it. Walking to the door, he slid it inside the metal port and tossed the car keys onto his bed before he went to lie in his own, thinking and drinking and shoving his grief aside.

           

It was evening when Mickey came back downstairs, preparing to work his second shift for the day. Working a twenty-four hour hotel was as tedious as one might think, and after working there for a while Mickey had began to regret giving Enzo a hard time for his attitude when he’d first walked in. He now could see how someone might get so irritable, working strange loops of hours that were not at all conducive to maintaining common courtesies. He was lucky he received reasonable shifts and that Enzo was so noble as to work through most of the late nights and early mornings.

            Rosa rose from the stool behind the desk and picked up her purse, tossing it over her shoulder. She was about to leave, and Mickey smiled at the cheery woman. Her cheeks were splashed rosy when he spoke. “Hey, Enzo come back?”

            “No, he say he go to post office.” Mickey’s brows crashed together, baffled and annoyed.

            “He said that this morning—he ain’t come back since then?” She shook her head and plopped a sweet from her purse into her mouth.

            “No, he come back, but he leave again.”  

            “He already went once, why the hell would he go back?” She shook her head.

            “ _No_ _sé_ , _hasta_ _luego_ , I go home now.” The flab of her arm shook when she opened the door, and she waved back at Mickey sweetly.

            “ _Adios,_ Rosa,” he returned, with a quick, distracted, and confused grin.

 

He sat at the desk for two hours past his shift. The clock was approaching two in the morning, and the amount of people checking in was sparse. Enzo still had yet to make an appearance, and the shortage of Mickey’s good nature was dwindling. _Jesus Christ, man, gonna work me to death._

            He was sleepy, and aching for a drink. The quiet lobby was shoving sore memory down his throat that he didn’t want to surface, and still there was no sign of that Brazilian asshole. There was hardly anyone checking in anyways, only amplifying the tasty torture of his mind.

 _Fuck this shit, I need a smoke._ Mickey took his cigarettes and his lighter and stepped outside, into the warm darkness, refusing to let Enzo’s negligence, and Ian’s rejection continue to overwhelm him.

            The streets looked skinny under the lights of resort windows. Bright squares of surrounding apartments breathed homely sounds and laughter that detonated in loud bursts and a few cars danced along the road in slow, sparse drags. It was quiet, peaceful, something he did not so often encounter in Chicago. He still didn’t know whether or not he’d found it bleak or beautiful, but it was different. A lot of things were different, and he didn’t know if that was bleak or beautiful either, but it was most definitely made with a dash of pain.

            Dammit, he _missed_ him. He loathed the shudders of sadness that he soaked himself in. But as much as he might like to, he couldn’t help it. He’d spent a year in prison thinking about the guy, missing him, dreaming about him, and while he had a break of bliss on their way to the country, it turned out seeing him for a moment before he cut himself out of the picture again only hurt worse than if he’d not seen him at all.

            It brought volcanic spurts of broken hearted anger that crusted over the shattered parts. Being a pissed off asshole felt good, a nice veneer when he was with others, but it did not attend to the lonely nights when he was nothing more than a down, depressed droop. Being alone brought a silence louder than anything he knew, and for the first time in his life, he was more comfortable in a conversation than he was by himself, even if it was some chuckling talk of Rosa’s grandchildren or Enzo’s blurbs of Brazil. _Somethin’ else to keep me from thinking myself insane,_ as he was about to do now, in the solitary cell of a heated night. _I’m going to sleep, if he loses money or whatever the fuck, this one’s on him._

            As he turned to put out the cigarette on the ashtray that hovered over a bag-less trashcan, his eyes lifted past the chipped brick of the corner of the building and over a few fences. Onto the far of the beach, he caught a top of red hair that shined copper strings in the small light of the moon. Mickey made his impatient way down to the shore, about to cuss him out.

           He sat on the same bench they’d sat on a month ago, head down, hands clasped, his eyes seemed sore, and his face was a wary mess of woe. “The fuck are you doing here, asshole? You were supposed to start work like two hours ago.” Enzo looked at him for a moment, his face unchanging, save the small wince he gave before he looked away. It was more unorthodox and more dismal than how he’d been acting before. _Now I look like the asshole._ “Eh, you all right?” Enzo struggled to swallow, and released a heavy breath.

            “Marcello sent another letter,” he confessed, “I was too excited, and I didn’t pick up my other shit, so I went back to get the rest of it.” His voice was quaking, and for the first time ever, he appeared as thin and fragile as glass, shattered on the beach bench. Mickey hadn’t ever seen him this way.  “He says he’s done. He can’t take it anymore; he wants no more to do with me.” _Join the fucking club,_ Mickey couldn’t help but think, he related too much to that one.

            The speech that followed was sad, swift swears of Portuguese that rambled through the air in thick lines. Enzo was always so composed, so tough, so _cocky_ , and now he was not even displaying the touch of downcast emotion that touched him earlier. His heart was red and crushed into the sand, and he kept none of it hidden.

            Mickey didn’t know what to do. As much as he might like to, he hardly knew how the hell to be there for others. He’d already told himself he’d try and be a shoulder to lean on when he needed it, and now he clearly did. He was practically hanging on Enzo’s leg for support, and he thought it fair for him to repay him, even if it was just with some shitty advice.

            But presented with the juicy opportunity, he didn’t know how to sip from its succulence. He could index his past experiences, but that was short and included nothing but a sister with a hard head and tough nails, and a redhead he was teaching himself to hate. _Me and Ian was always there for each other, though,_ he relented _. What would I say, if it was him_?

            “Just cause he says somethin’ doesn’t mean—” Mickey tried. Enzo stood, ignited, he gestured defensively and swore some more in his own tongue.

            “No, no because, he’s—fuck I forget the word, _caralho, droga_! He’s timid, he’s timid—he would not say this if he did not mean it.” He squatted down, hands held in front of him, Mickey could see the sparkle of his tears as they splashed into the sand. He took a breath and searched around the beach for enough guts to speak.

            “Look, when Ian cut me off a while back, I figured the same fuckin’ thing. He ain’t ever said no shit like that before, least not like that, and I thought it meant that fuck, it was all fuckin’ done, ‘specially when I was locked up,” Mickey sighed, “and then he almost dropped all his shit and went with me to fucking Mexico,” he almost smiled, “and yeah, he mighta left me at the goddamn border, but that don’t mean he didn’t give a shit, we spent five years together, you can’t spend five years with someone and not give a shit.”

             He was surprising himself a little with all that he was granting him, but he was also aware that what he was saying was not only for Enzo’s pretty consolation. “And I get it, things fuckin’ suck, they do for me too. We’re both in a fuck-hole of a shit-situation…but, hey, I just gotta think, if things was different, hell, maybe me and Gallagher woulda still been together.” Mickey rubbed at his nose, embarrassed, despite Enzo’s exceedingly intimate display of emotion. “Guess what I’m gettin’ at is if things were different, shit would be better for both of us, but you can’t just fuckin’ sit here, crying over it, instead of trying to pick shit up and make things work. You’ll ruin yourself doin’ that, man.” _Maybe I should take some of my own goddamn advice._

            Enzo’s eyes were analyzing Mickey in a deep stare as though he could see into him and touch at his soul. The brown pits were reflecting a sky full of stars that swam in the gloss of his tears. Nodding, he stood and looked back into the air.

            He walked to face Mickey. And though Enzo was only a few inches taller, Mick felt unbelievably tiny under his scrutiny. The Brazilian placed cool hands on either side of Mickey’s neck, brushing his skin with a rough thumb. Mickey challenged his stare, unsure of his intentions.

            He was relieved when all he did was nod, as though Mickey’s words were just being said and he was agreeing with them. Mickey couldn’t help but to feel a brick of claustrophobia crack his chest. His lips pursed with unease. His feelings about the way Enzo was looking at him were not yet indentified, and he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to. “You gonna say somethin' or we just gonna sit here starin' at each other?” He finally asked, breaking the awkward silence with a hard, uncomfortable brow.

            Enzo nodded his head once more, chuckling, he let his fingertips lightly linger on Mickey’s snow skin. Walking back to the hotel, he opened the door for both of them and took Mickey’s spot behind the desk. He rubbed the red from his eyes, and picked up a pen to scribble something onto a yellow notepad.

            “You can go to bed now, gringo, sorry I kept you up so late,” he said so with a sad smile. Mickey shook his head.

            “Don’t worry about it.” He turned to go upstairs, Enzo’s voice holding him a moment longer. The same depressed grin sat on his lips.

             “ _Obrigado_.” It didn’t take knowing a multitude of languages, or an ability to read through the pages of peoples’ personalities to recognize, a clean, and genuine “thank you” when it was whispered into the softness of the air.


	11. MICKEY

             “All of these names sound like a teacher in like fucking—Wisconsin or some shit.” Mickey sat on the floor of Enzo’s hotel room, one knee up and the other slopped to the side, papers crowded the ground in front of him, scribbled with ideas, steps they’d take, and a bunch of other shit Enzo had been sorting through, currently occupied, the sound of his piss trickling into the toilet of the bathroom sounded while Mickey continued to pull through a list of names on a packet of printed possible aliases. Enzo had made them for his reference, and Mickey had been a bit displeased at their contents, to say the least. _They all sound like they belong to someone’s Mormon cousin._

            “That’s the point!” Enzo’s yell was followed by the whooshing of the toilet flush. He came out of the cracked door, buckling himself up as he returned to his spot in front of Mick, plopping back down to resume his writing, alternating between two papers. Despite Marcello’s declaration of withdrawal from his life, Enzo had refused to accept the simple split between them, still constantly sending letters, even though throughout the month that had gone by, Mickey was pretty sure he hadn’t received any in return.

            “Point’s to make me some boring Midwestern asshat?” Enzo nodded, and gave a goofy grin. He’d been in a good mood the extent of the day, slowly rolling into night. It was Wednesday, and some pockfaced man named Julio was working the front until the early morning.

            “I’m going to make you the most boring man in the world,” he pointed his pen in Mickey’s direction. “No drug jobs, no gangbangs—or whatever you used do that was illegal. None of it. You cannot have another record. You need to just be, you know, boring—normal, but not too much, otherwise it looks suspicious.” Enzo lit a cigarette, taking a quick puff, before he leaned a little ways in over the papers between them, and whispered in a low, semi-serious voice, “And if you do choose to do anything, make sure you do not get caught, because if you do, I will find you in Chicago, or whatever other place you end up in, personally cut off your dick and feed it to whatever birds there will eat it. I’m risking a lot, for you, Milkovich.” He returned to his letter, and Mickey couldn’t help the rumbling laughter that pulsed in his chest.“What?”

            “You sound like—nothin’.” Enzo squinted at him, and pushed it

            “Like what?” Mickey smiled again, placing dashes to a few of the names he didn’t deem too horrible to completely disregard.

            “Just somethin’ my fuckin’ ex-wife woulda said.” Enzo’s face was pierced with confusion and he stared deep into Mickey’s features, setting aside his pen and pad, he took another confused drag of smoke.

            “You say ex-wife?” The fury in Enzo’s eyes was tied with disbelief.

            Mickey nodded, brows raised in impatience, “Yeah.” He took a sip from a brown beer bottle and set it back in its spot by his side.

            “But, you like boys.” Mickey winced.

            “First off, don’t ever say I like boys again, that sounds hella fuckin’ wrong, and two, fuck if I said I wanted to be with the whore, it just sorta had to happen.”

            “Why did it have to, why don’t you tell?” Mickey shook his head.

            “Nah, man, it ain’t that serious.”

            “Come on, you do not tell me anything, if it’s not something about _Ian Gallagher,_ just tell me this one.” _I don’t just talk about Ian,_ Mickey thought with a presumptuous sureness, followed by an equal unsure, _Fuck, do I?_

            “I don’t _just_ talk about Gallagher, asswipe, there’s plenty a other shit I said.” Enzo’s eyelids drooped over his eyes, tired of Mickey’s blatant denial.

            “All right, I won’t push on that, but tell me what happened. Why did you marry a woman?” Mickey rolled his tongue along his top teeth, annoyed, because he was about to prove Enzo right. That entire story started with Ian. He’d just keep it short and sweet.

            “Knocked her up, dad made me get hitched.”

            “Why did she have your child?” Mickey huffed.

            “You ain’t gonna just let go a this one, huh?” Mickey scratched an itchy spot by his eye. Enzo was grinning again. _Pompous asshole._

            “No…sorry.” Mickey could tell Enzo was also trying his best to distract himself from his heartache. Ever since Marcello had cut him off, his stories brought more thoughts of grief than that of ceaseless love.

             Mickey started from the beginning. He and Ian, fucking in the living room, Terry walking in, Svetlana riding him in a heap of misery, Ian begging him to not go through with the marriage, Yevgeny. Then the fast forward of a year later, when the divorce papers came in, and he’d popped them out of a yellow envelop while he was in prison, how he signed the document with fast fervor and a twinge of sadness, the feeling of the whole world just trying to forget about him.

            “Damn. I mean _merda_ , Mickey. I don’t know how you do it—marry someone you do not love, why don’t you listen to your lover?” Mickey shrugged, still flipping through the catalog of names Enzo had created for him.

            “Either that or a fuckin’ forty-four to my head.” The Brazilian snickered.

            “Childhood of dead bodies, and marrying prostitutes, no wonder you went to prison.” Mickey flipped him off, casting aside the pictures that were flying through his head at the talk of it. Enzo smiled, scanning him. Mickey raised the pencil behind his head, scratching his neck with half of the warm nerves of Enzo’s gaze, and the rest with ponderous flicks through the list. _This fuckin’ sucks, man._

             “Eh, can’t I just change my last name?” Mickey finally asked, dropping a hand in defeat. _Not one a these stupid ass names is somethin’ I’d wanna go by._

             “No,” the word was immediate and accompanied by a vigorous shake of his head. “If your name was Michael, or Pablo, or John, you could, but Mi-kay-lo,” he struggled to pronounce, “it’s too unique.” Enzo dropped his things to the side and laid onto his back, flipping the pen he’d been using and catching it in pinwheels of plastic that shuddered green in its twirls.

             “Nah, man, just, Mickey.” _Not like anyone calls me Mikhailo any fuckin’ way._

             “Still too unique.”

             “Mick?” Enzo turned his head from the look he was giving the ceiling, caught his pen, and shot deep brown eyes at Mickey, brows raised. “Alright, alright, I’ll find somethin’.” _Paul. Richard. Harold. Nicholas. Gregory. Charles._

              “You see, I can do that, because my name is common ‘round these places, yours is not really at all.”

              “So, you’re real name’s Enzo?” Mickey sought, both a bit sarcastic and a bit serious. He’d been calling him it the entire time, but with Enzo’s constant slaps of secrets and surprises it wouldn’t have shocked him if it was something else. _Jake. Mike. Carl. Riley._

              “My full name is Vincenzo-Pedro Mário Augosto Galdo, but as far as they know here, my last name is Alvarez. I never liked _Vincenzo-Pedro_ , anyway, is too long.”

              “Mine’s a bitch to say too, no one ain’t ever called me Mikhailo, anyway.” _Brad. James. Thomas._

              “You do not like Mikhailo?” Mickey tossed a look of impatience.

              “Everybody just calls me Mickey, I don’t really give a shit.”

              “Mikhailo. I think is nice, _I_ will call you it.” Enzo sat up, swinging his legs back into a pretzel.

              “Nah, don’t, man, my family ain’t hardly ever call me that.” _Holden. Chris. Jackson. Craig._

               “Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich.” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Mikhailo,” he poked him with the pen, “Mikhailo.” Mickey was doing his best to remain serious, “ _Mikhailo_ ,” it was a sultry,  playful whisper, and Mickey directed his eyes harder into the sheet of paper, doing his best to ignore Enzo’s annoying jibes and plucks with his pen. _Ethan. William. Alex._ His teasing didn’t stop though, and Mickey’s gut was burning with frustration and bits of amusement he refused to let surface.

               “Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up!” He finally shouted, Enzo laughed to himself, rolling fingers through long strands of red, he fidgeted with his hands and leaned against the side of the bed. A grin finally betrayed Mickey and came lopsided onto his face. He chuckled into his words. “Don’t you got better shit to do than act like a little bitch playing games at a slumber party?”

               “Well, if you would hurry and pick something out, so I could have it ready for my guy, tomorrow, get your papers made…” Mickey nodded, huffing, he looked over the names again. He’d reached the end of the packet, and flipped through it once more, rereading the list on the left of the third page. _Nicholas_. One of the ones picked at with a dash of silver graphite. That could work. People could call him “Nick” for short. It was a pseudonym he could handle, if someone called it out, he’d answer to it with ease. _Sounds close enough to Mickey._   He’d already picked “Greer” as his last name.

               “Nick, Nick Greer, that sound good to you?” He finally asked, flipping the front page back to the top of the papers, he tossed the list into the pile between them.

               “As in Nicholas?” Enzo sighed, “That’s smart.” He yawned, “Now, let me just get some information, and then, well, we’ll see.” He dived his hand into the pile and thrust a stapled set of sheets out of it, shaking another piece caught between it. He read the questions off in bored breaths. “Full name, we have that, you pick middle name?” Mickey blinked, throwing his fingers in the air. _Fuck if a middle name’s gonna matter._

               “Paul.”

               “Birthday.”

               “August 1, ‘94.”

               “Do you want to be older or younger?”

                Mickey groaned, “Fuck you mean?”

               “Have to change your birthday.”

               “Oh,” he sighed, “older, I guess.”

               “Good, if I go back too far, you’d be a teenager again,” Enzo’s showed his teeth in a flash of a smile, “all right, your new birthdate, is January 16, 1991.” Mickey nodded.

                “Weight, height?”

                “Five foot seven. Pretty sure I’m like one-fifty pounds, but I dunno, haven’t done that shit since I was in prison.” Enzo shook his head, converting it.

                “Americans, you still have not adapted to the measurement system of the rest of the world.” He paused and scrunched his eyebrows together, “One-hundred seventy centimeter tall?” Mickey’s eyes flew through the room at Enzo’s hard, questioning stare. Holding his beer, Mickey stalled his sip as he spoke.

                “Yeah, I mean, I guess.” Enzo humphed.

                “You look shorter.” Mickey’s lips  pressed together, dissatisfied. If Enzo had looked at him longer than a second before his face was glued back into the paper he would’ve gave him the bird again.

                 “And, I’m going to get you some glasses to wear, so we put a check for that one. And yes, I think that’s all we need, for now, your eyes are blue, and your hair, we must do, but we wait a few more months, let it get a little longer, what color, must be lighter, so light brown, blond, or red?” Mickey’s stomach was quivering. He didn’t like the idea of having to change his hair color. _Probably look like shit blond, and damned if I’ll be looking like Ian’s redheaded ass._

                 “Brown.” Enzo nodded, putting it on the paper. He dropped it, and rested his fist on his chin, fluxing a breath that made his next words heavy.

                 “Now, we have to get rid of these tattoos so that they can heal over these next months before you go back.”

                 “How, with like that laser shit?” Enzo bit his lip, nervous.

                 “Well, that would be _nice_ , but they’d have record of you getting rid of them, they cost much, especially for how much I’m already paying my guy to get everything for the fire and your new identity, so,” he closed his eyes, and shortened his ramblings, “burn, or scrape, your choice.”

                 “Burn them off, or scrape them off?” Enzo’s smile was wan and apologetic. “So either way it’s gonna hurt like fuck?”

                 “Burning them off would hurt more, but it would be faster, scraping would hurt too, but, you know it would take longer.” Mickey gnawed on his lip. _Didn’t ever think I’d be picking between self mutilations._

                 “A’ight, burn ‘em.” His voice wavered. It wasn’t an everyday decision, and the picture churning his mind of the blisters it’d leave made him nauseous.

                 “You want me to do it, or you do it—”

                 “You do it.” Mickey didn’t think he could stand burning off his own skin, the smell of it rising into his nose, and the courage he’d need to muster to press it in quick swipes instead of tapping it shyly in fear of screaming his head off in pain. “Let’s do this shit now, so I can go to sleep after, not stay up all day with my entire hand burning like a bitch.” Enzo nodded, and they moved to the bed, Mickey sitting on the ugly floral covers, the same that made up his own mattress. Enzo pulled a chair up in front of him.

                 It took him a little while to heat up the flat tipped screwdriver to something warm enough to seriously burn flesh. When it did finally reach a temperature of reasonable heat, the drop of water Enzo used to test it burst into a cloud of steam in less than an instant. The sight of the mist ran shivers up Mickey’s spine and tightened the muscles in his throat. _I’ve probably felt worst fuckin’ pain_ , he tried, _still don’t mean this won’t hurt like hell._ He could at least take comfort in that it looked brand new, flat and shiny, though he winced when Enzo accidentally dropped it onto the wood of the nightstand.

                “What?” Enzo asked at the strange look on Mickey’s face. He picked it up and warmed it more with a lighter. Mickey shook his head.

                “Just don’t like loud noises.”

                 Enzo pulled Mickey’s hand into his, and rubbed his fingers with a small amount of alcohol, massaging the antiseptic around the dark of the tattoo ink. His eyes seeped into Mickey’s, “I’m going to do it now,” he forewarned. His voice was a calm, smooth river, seasoned with a Brazilian’s twang. The flow of his words had softened Mickey’s steel fear and calmed the anticipation of hellish pain. He rose the metal above Mickey’s right pinky finger, blemished with a capital “F,” he pressed it into his skin in a firm, swift motion that hit Mickey like gunfire. He jerked his hand away as soon as the metal touched his skin.

               “ _MO-THER FUCK-ER! JESUS FUCK-ING CHRIST! HOLY SHIT!”_ Rising from the spot on Enzo’s bed, he shook out his pinky, “Holy fuck!”

               “Don’t be so dramatic,” Enzo spoke lazily.

               “Don’t be so fucking dramatic? Have you ever stuck that shit to your skin?” Mickey kissed over the burnt “F” on his finger and sucked back the mist from his eyes.

               “Yes,” Mickey eyed him, and Enzo let an exasperated breath float in the air, he pointed to his bicep first, a small silvery spot, Mickey might’ve noticed before, but not enough to ever consider what it was from. “I had a stupid heart and rose, I got when I was drunk, scraped it after I left Ecuador,” he pulled some shaggy red hairs aside and exposed a twisted white one, still a bit blue from the ink, “and then there’s this one, a spiderweb, I burned it off with a knife when I went to Texas, and,” he lifted his shirt up a little ways, and showed a wide scar, about the size of a fist, still quite fresh; it stained the spot above his hipbone, “I had a dragon right there, but I got rid of it a few months back, after someone caught me shirtless with it in a picture, you can never be too careful.” Mickey let a force of air flare his nostrils. “Just come, I’ll use the knife.” Mickey nodded, sitting back down.

               The scraping was not as bad. At first it was just a sterile scratch, like a sharp fingernail digging into his skin. Though as it bit deeper, and the flesh grew raw and red, the sting became a familiar sensation of pain that was uncomfortable and tear-jerking. It hurt more when Enzo was done, and the spots were left to nothing but the pungent kiss of the air, and it _was_ taking a while, and the burning in his fingers only seemed to make it stretch on forever. _Don’t know if I could do it to the one on my chest._

               He’d yet to tell Enzo about the rough tat on the left of his breast. It hadn’t come to mind, well, not until he was already ripping away the ones on his fingers, and the way they were rouging in the dim light shook him with spirals of uneasiness and anxiety. _Yeah, don’t know if I could do it for that one._ It was bigger, and darker. All that he had inked onto his body he’d got done in prison, and when he’d drawn in Ian’s name in unsteady calligraphy he’d done it with crack ruining his blood and violent stabs that shot deep into the layers of his skin. It wasn’t until Enzo was finishing swiping away the last bit of pigment on his right hand, and about to start on his left that he decided to mention it.

             “I have another one,” his voice cracked as he spoke, and he cleared his throat. “I got another tattoo.” Enzo looked up from the messy mix of a blurred “U” and seeps of blood from the fresh cut.

             “Where?” Mickey sighed, and undid the top few button of his collar shirt, a fresh black loose thing he’d bought in Mexico. He pulled it open just enough to reveal the scrawled “ _Ian Galegar_ ” written in fading prison ink on his skin. At the sight, Enzo smiled with some sense of pity, and released a quaint laugh. “Who did that? You didn’t pay for it did you? God, it looks like shit!” Mickey bit back his anger and embarrassment, shaking his head.

             “I was high as fuck, and it’s hard to do a fuckin’ tattoo in a prison cell, a’ight?” Enzo’s mouth fell into an awkward, meek smile, and his brows lilted.

             “You did it?” Mickey could see the remorse twine into his face, “Well, it’s not so much people will see it, does anyone know about it?” _No one ‘cept Ian and inmates in the fuckin’ shower._ Mickey shook his head. “Then, it’s fine, but,” he paused, looking at it again, as though it was a blind child or a kicked pup on the street, “I’d get it—changed.”

             “Like get some’in over it?” Enzo nodded.

             “Holy hell, I cannot believe it.” He was not relenting his grin, and Mickey could tell he wanted to laugh at him. _I’d probably laugh at me too,_ Mickey thought, the thing was pathetic and he knew it, but, he also knew that at the time he didn’t know if he’d ever see the guy again, not that he planned on seeing him now. “You still are in love with him.” Mickey sighed.

             “Don’t wanna be,” _that was a lie_ , “tryin’ to stop giving a shit about him.” Enzo clicked the side of his mouth.

             “No good, you won’t ever stop giving a _shit_ about someone you were in love with. You may not be in love with them, anymore, but, you will still love them, care about them.” He dabbed finally wounded knuckle with the disinfectant and Mickey hissed at the stinging that shocked the backs of his fingers. “But, nothing lasts forever,” he sighed, “pain passes, beauty fades, ink smears…” he tugged hard on the scrape of Mickey’s skin, and the Chicago boy swore at the yank of his flesh “…and then eventually we all die,” he wiped the knife’s edge with sour rubbing alcohol, “and then begins again,” he was almost done, and Mickey swelled with hot excitement at his nearly finished torture. “I think we all die more than once with our experiences of pain, anyway.” His eyes grew hard for a moment, and he stalled in his scrape of skin. “I died a little when I received Marcello’s letter,” he continued with a stifling breath, “but what can you do?”

 _Yeah, what can you do_? He couldn’t help how he felt, he couldn’t help that he still, and might always love, or even always _be_ in love with Ian Gallagher, but there was nothing he could do to help their severance either. He couldn’t help what was happening with Enzo, how his words so often struck him and pierced his head with things he hadn’t taken sweet time to think about. Like now.

            It was one of his poetry moments. A moment Mickey was lost for words, and completely incapable of returning anything of similar value. It was becoming clearer and clearer to him, that Enzo was craving sort of feeling for and from him. Throughout the month, even prior to Enzo receiving the piece of paper that nearly crushed him to pieces, he’d been acting different. Mickey hadn’t exactly been able to pick up on it from the start. But as the weeks rolled over, and fastened into months, as he began to note the certain sparkle in his eye, or the certain string of words that he’d confided that just weren’t something crossed between two friends, it had become too evident to deny. Both of their broken hearts were tugging a little bit at each other.

           Enzo was not Ian, and Mickey was not Marcello, and they both knew each other would not be kept as substitute for anyone. That was something of patent impossibility. But in whatever time they had together, Mickey thought they could at least cause comfort between themselves, and he could tell Enzo thought so too.

          He liked the guy. He liked him in a way that he really hadn’t liked anybody else. Not like any stupid flings in prison, and _definitely_ not how he liked Ian. That was an entire different beast, one that attacked him relentlessly, a monster he didn’t know how to shake off, and he wasn’t quite sure if he ever wanted to. It was different. And in most different times, Mickey didn’t know how or what the fuck to say. _Or where hell to even begin._

          Luckily Enzo spoke and tore him from his brooding mind, “You need to make a letter, a note, to the people you plan to tell, have them deal with the body, that way if they ask for autopsy those people can tell them no. Also, just so they create a funeral, know your alive, and all that,” Mickey nodded, still thinking about the strange sense of feeling that was blooming within him. “Are you going to tell him?”

         “Huh?”

         “Are you going to tell _Ian Gallagher_?” He said Ian’s name as though it was a fancy restaurant. It dragged him up and away from all thoughts of anyone else. _Fucking Ian, of course I want to fucking tell him, I want to see him, I want_ him _, I want, fuck, everything I can’t have, and I want to tell him._ But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself get hurt again, and he wouldn’t tug Gallagher back into a place he didn’t need to be. Ian had made it damned and clear that he couldn’t afford a fugitive in his life, and Mickey could not afford to have him break his heart again either.

         “No,” he begun, “he’s got shit goin’ for him, hell, if he thinks I’m dead, might be easier for the guy to just fuckin’ forget about me.” Mickey’s breath whistled through his teeth, as Enzo finished another finger and the air came rushing against his raw skin.

         “He won’t.” Mickey eyed him up and down. His chocolate brown eyes in a focused stare, starting a scratch on his last pinky finger. His skin looked more olive when it was not shining in the sun, less bronzy, and his roots were coming in a dark black that matched the light layer of stubble along his cheek.

         “Why you fuckin’ doin’ this for me, man?” Mickey asked. Enzo didn’t look up at him and ruffled a confused brow.

         “You paid me, and ask me to, we both benefit, why are you asking that?” Mickey swallowed.

         “You just do it for fuckin’ anybody ?” Mick chuckled into the question nervously, and Enzo’s eyes lifted, shooting at Mickey’s, measuring the intent of his words. He set down the knife, laid Mickey’s wounded hand to the side, and pressed his fingers on the back of his neck before he leaned in fiercely to kiss him.


	12. MICKEY

            Mickey’s fist shot through the air in an instant reflex when he woke, and Enzo’s hands rose in defense as he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I will not arrest you.” Mick sat up, blinking into consciousness. The sun was screaming in his face. “I just wanted to let you know, my guy, he wrapped up some unidentified bodies, I sent him your information yesterday, and he got one that’s close enough to your characteristics, we’re doing it tonight.” Enzo was already getting dressed, pulling jeans over his underwear, and slipping his feet into rough Timberlands. Mickey pulled himself from the sheets as well, clad in nothing but black and blue boxers.

            “Where we gonna stay, man?” Enzo gave him a droopy look.

            “I have an apartment.” _Of course he does_. It still seemed there were a million things he didn’t know about him, even with the excessive amount of intimate moments they’d shared.

           Sex with Enzo had been unfamiliar and exhilarating, relieving needs Mickey had neglected for too long. He’d been nervous at first. The range of people he’d slept with had consisted of inmates, prostitutes, or Ian, all of which gave him senses of superiority or familiarity, and doing it with someone he was slightly intimidated by was a strict change of pace. Enzo, however, had led with a cool confidence that bled into Mickey. And once they’d finished, it’d left him sated and with nerves like warm fire, drawing away some of the pain that shook his fingers.

            The scrapes were scabbed red and ugly, alien looking underneath the bandages he’d applied following the spur of sex that had shot through the night. He’d taped them tight, and despite the plastic and cloth barrier, rough contact against them busted his fingers with hot agony, and as he pulled on his pants he did it with mostly thumb and grunts of pain.

            “You know this will not last long?” Enzo’s words ripped the air and Mickey pulled on his shirt before he lit a smoke, holding it awkward between his mangled knuckles.

            “Figured as fuckin’ much, considering I’m leavin’ in like two—three months.” The way Enzo spoke, he didn’t know if he was actually talking to him, so much as he was speaking to himself.

            “When I go back to Brazil, I will patch things up with Marcello, head off somewhere else for few months, and go back for good, begin a new life.” He shrugged a shirt over slim, muscled, brown arms and rested a hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “And you will begin yours with Ian Gallagher.” Mick shook his head.

            “I told you, I ain’t goin’ back for him.” Enzo rolled his eyes.

            “Yes, of course, I forget.” After Mickey forced on his shoes, Enzo waved a violent hand, “Come, we have to go pick it up,” Mickey nodded, tightened his belt, and followed him.

            They took a bus to Enzo’s “guy,” as that was all he used to refer to him. He didn’t want to associate his Mercedes with any of it, had anything gone awry, and he said his man had a van they could take them in, considering the doubtfulness of a plunder of bodies fitting inside an E-Class coupe.

            Mickey rubbed around the bandages in small circles of discomfort as they sat on the bus. _Jesus Christ._ It hadn’t been a full day and he was already impatient for the time he’d be able to actually punch someone without hurting himself more than the victim of it. Enzo had caught him staring at them and kindly pulled a wounded hand of his and pressed his lips to it. _Didn’t think one bang would make him all tender._ Maybe he should’ve expected it, the guy was made of drama and dreams, but the gesture still struck him with surprise.

            “I’ll get some penicillin for you to take, must make sure does not get infected. It’ll heal, do not worry, it should not take too long, the ink wasn’t so dark.”

            “Still hurts like fuck.” Enzo nodded, and rubbed his shoulder.

The doors to the bus puffed open, and they stepped down the black steps with dirt crusted ridges. The street they walked on was made of dark and scraggly pavement, and Enzo pulled Mickey’s wrist down an alley behind a sketchy bar that perfumed beer and roasting meat. An old, rotund man tossed food that steamed on a stand in front of the bar and boasted cries of Spanish into the streets. The place was far from the touristy strip he and Enzo lived on.

            Behind the building, a guy with a strange grin and flashy eyes loomed over both of them.  His hair was a strangely combed back dark loaf that seemed to float on top of his head. His face was lined with bits of age, forty five, fifty maybe, and his square, sharp jaw was wide above a loose silk button-up, cut at the bicep, his pants were an odd, white khaki. The sprinkle of men around him held lips in straight lines above stone gazes.

            “ _Enzo!_ ” His voice was large and thick and the rumbles of Spanish they exchanged were bizarre, the look in his eye, twisted. Mickey didn’t like him. “This is the friend, his name?” He looked to Mickey as though he was picking cattle.

            “Mickey.” He spat it, and his look stayed hard on him. He was fake and all his smiles were artificial. _Creepy fuck_.

Enzo shot eyes at Mickey that read a warning and he returned his attention to the older man. Mickey leaned to the back of the building as they were talking, watching the guy’s hands gesture to him several times. His face was crawling with gross hunger. Enzo smiled sweetly and shook his head a few times, and the man smiled back, wide, with bleached teeth, before he touched Enzo’s neck endearingly. Enzo forced back a look of boyish acceptance to the gesture.

            After the conversation, the man slapped his hand on the side of the large white van, and the guys that had been strewn around him swung the doors open like quick servants. He spoke in English this time, addressing both of them, “Um, we have eight here, all from different morgues, around this places, none of them have been identified.” He twisted around the pyramid of black body bags and pulled a tag from one of them. “This one is his, I just write Enzo’s name on the tag, for to give it to you.” Mickey flinched at the sight, and tried his best to think of them as full black sacks instead of mounds of dead people. “So, I see you tonight then, Enzo?” He winked at him, and Enzo smiled back with mock flirtatiousness, before the man drove away with his guys in a dark silver Expedition.

            The two climbed into the car, and Enzo yanked it into drive. “Don’t ever say I didn’t do anything for you.” Mickey hadn’t planned on saying anything of the kind. “He wanted to fuck you as part of the deal.”

            “What’d you tell him?” _Knew there was something off about that asshole._

            “I’m going to his apartment later.” Mick’s heart dropped to his stomach. He could’ve puked at the images carding through his head.

            “Why the fuck would you go and do that?”

            “He usually prices that with the few thousand he always asks for, is how we negotiate. And if he did with you, Mickey, you probably would not come back. He does the human trafficking too, but he will not for me, not with how he knows my uncle, and not with how he knows me.” He let a sigh loose and they bumped over a small hole in the road. “And I want to do all this for you. It’s okay. If I knew better guy, I go to him, but he is really good, even though he’s sort of—bad.” He glanced at Mick, reading the concerned twist of his brow, he did his best at consolation, “This will be the last time anyway, when I do what I do for you, for myself, I will do it all on my own, I am not going to him again.”

            Mickey hoped he wouldn’t. The amount of shit he was doing for him unnerved him. He was sure he wouldn’t have done half the things Enzo was doing for him, for anyone. _Well, almost anyone._ He was asking hardly anything in return, and Mick figured if ever he did, no matter the extremity, he’d have to say yes.

 

After he’d gotten back from the man’s apartment that evening, tying the deal closed, they began to set up. Both of their faces were tied with towels, and hard, clear goggles shielded their eyes from the splashes of gasoline they poured over the stretch of the hallways. Enzo had checked out all the guests he could, giving them petty reasons for why they had to leave, most of them did so without a second thought; there were hotels just as cheap and shitty around close corners. He’d tattooed the letters that had been on Mickey’s knuckles onto “his” body, and placed “his” pocket with the fake ID Mickey had been using, soiling it all in his room with enough gas to ruin the body, without breaking the usage of the ID card or tattoos.  

            The smell of gallons of gas stroked Mick’s nose even through the thick linen, and he gave a small cough as he opened his mouth to talk. “He really wouldna done it without making you his bitch?” Mickey could hear the huff inside Enzo’s cloth.

            “He might, but he might ask more.”

            “Had a feeling ‘bout that fuckhead soon as I saw him.” Enzo chuckled.

            “I could tell.” The imprint of a smile bumped Enzo’s mask. “You know, I think you do not give yourself enough credit. You are smart, all right at reading people. Not as well’s I am, but I can tell, you still think me suspicious, and well—you have reason to.” Mickey’s face crashed into curiosity, as Enzo set down his canister, only lined with a splash of gas left.

            “Reason I should know about?” Enzo shook his head.

            “No,” he looked around the hall, and rubbed his hands together. “I think that’s about it, you can take the Mercedes to the address I give you? Write what you need to, everything before we come back, do the fire. I will handle the bodies.”

            “Nah I can help,” Mickey’s speech was muffled and Enzo was at the far end of the hall. He tore it down to his neck, aggravated. “I can help with that shit, you don’t gotta do it on your own.” Enzo shook his head.

            “I do not want to trigger your PTSD of dead people.” Mickey rose his shoulders and dropped a hand.

            “I don’t have PTSD, asswipe.” Enzo took off his towel as well, and looked to him with a somber brow.

            “You don’t like loud noises, your father was abusive, made you get rid of a body, and you almost knocked me out this morning.” Mickey was suddenly parched. He dropped the canister on the ground, and threw off the goggles, yanking the towel from around his neck. He wasn’t going to argue with that.

            “I’ll go write the goddamn letter,” he grumbled under his breath; Enzo laughed.

 

Enzo’s apartment was part of a duplex with dry white flowers in the front and a terracotta roof. It was over a half hour from where he worked, and he could see his inclination to stay at the hotel. The place was barren.

         The cabinets were empty boxes of wood, and the fridge held nothing but old milk and wilting vegetables. The sofa was a vibrant teal, sitting in front of a dusty television and small bookcases that carried a fair amount of bound hardcovers and hefty stacks of paperbacks. Mickey fiddled through some of them in curiosity, smiling as he came across some cheesy looking guy on guy erotica, tied together with a cover of muscled men in shadowy lighting.

         Done snooping through the place, he pulled paper from the cabinet Enzo told him to look in, and licked the ballpoint of a black pen before he leaned over the counter and started to write in the most clean script he could muster. 

_Iggy, Joey, listen up and don’t show this to nobody. Matter fact, burn it once you’re done reading it. You get a call I’m dead, say okay. Cops ask to do a fuckin’ autopsy tell them no cuz that goes against our religion or some shit—make up an excuse. Try to call Mandy if you can. I’ll be back in Chicago in the next few months, make sure people think I’m dead. Don’t ask how or why I’m doing this. Just go with it. K? K._

_-Mickey_

          He licked an envelope, folded the piece of paper and shoved it inside, scribbling the address to his old house on top of it, before he flipped a stamp to the corner. _Hopefully they check the fuckin’ mail._

            A knock sounded in heavy thumps, Enzo’s voice shot through the door, yelling for him to open.  “I’m comin’, Jesus,” Mickey swore and crossed the room to open it. Enzo didn’t do so much as look at him when he flew through the door, covered head to toe in black soot, his face was drenched in sweat. “Woah, man, what the fuck? How long were you in there for?”

            He didn’t answer. He first grunted and dashed to the sink, turning it on, he drank the water straight from the faucet, and his eyes rolled back in pleasure as he gulped it down. “I hired some male and female prostitutes with bad business to you know, act like—survivors,” he panted, “They ran out pretty quick, but, I get stuck at the back, trying to light up this one spot, I’m okay though, I did not get burned. I just, can’t really breath right now.” He rested his hands on his thighs and coughed.

            “You call the cops?” Enzo nodded.

            “ _Sim, sim_ , but I did not have to, you could smell it from down the street, the firemen, they all came fast, and, they got it out, but it take them while. The taxi driver kept asking if I needed a hospital.” Still standing in front of the sink, he took his shirt off and hacked up part of his lung. “Anyway, I go do the legal stuff tomorrow. I did some tonight when I talk to the cops, but, I think we’re going to be good.” He held the sides of Mickey’s cheeks and gave him a firm kiss that tasted of salt and ash. “I’m going to go take a shower.” Mickey nodded, eyes wide at him. He almost wanted to laugh.

            “A’ight, I’m gonna go mail this.” Mick flapped the envelope off the counter and Enzo nodded furiously, coughing some more.

            “Good, yes, okay, good.” His breath was wheezy and labored as he made it up the stairs, swearing in his native tongue between coughs. Once he was out of sight, Mickey stepped outside to mail the letter, letting the coolness of night seep into him. It was too nice a night to stay in. He lit a smoke and sat on the cushioned whickered bench that rode along the strip of Enzo’s porch, lolling his head onto the window behind him. His face was painted with smears of black smoke from Enzo’s hands and he rubbed it off with rough fingers, wincing as he worked to remove it.

            It was all done. Now the only thing was left to pray that it would work, which was more nerve-racking than acquiring any of the prerequisites. If it didn’t work, he didn’t know what the hell would happen. Enzo said if they didn’t identify him, it meant redoing the entire process, but God, doing it once had worn both of them out. They’d done everything they possibly could have to make it work. The ID, the tattoos, the room number, all his stuff had been in that room, save his money and all the clothes he’d gotten in Mexico. And they already knew he was in the country. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what would.

            “Mickey?” He could hear Enzo say from inside. Mickey’s lips curled as he blew a perfect stream of smoke.

            “Out here!” Enzo came outside, dressed in athletic shorts that stopped at the knee and a black t-shirt. He shook out his freshly showered hair with his fingers. It looked even wavier when it was wet.

            “What’re you thinking about?” He huffed and sat next to Mickey, they both propped their feet onto the banister in front of them and shared a cigarette.

            “If this shit’ll actually work.” Enzo nodded.

            “It should. They already know you are in Mexico. I’m sure they’ll find out.” Mickey nodded.

            “Yer probably right.” Staring at the night sky, his eyes swimming into a sea of white stars, Enzo at his side. It made him think of Ian, before he left him, when they were still on the road, and stopped to lay under the bridge, sipping stale beer and staring at the sky. He could still hear the echo of his laugh. “Me and Ian sat outside like this when we came up here, and when we was younger, we had this spot, near the high school, this baseball field we used to go to. Fuck, things were better back then.” He weighed, “‘Cept course, we used to beat the shit outta each other.” Enzo gawked.

            “I could never hit Marcello.” _We shouldn’t have._ “What did you fight about?” Mickey shrugged.

            “A lot a nothing, with some actual shit in between.” Enzo sighed.

            “Tha’s usually how it is. You really are not going to return to him?”

            “I don’t know man, I’m just—I know  he musta gave some sorta shit about me, but, fuck,” he struggled to say the words,“ every time I’ve done some shit for him, just get it thrown back in my fuckin’ face. I was ‘bout to do fifteen years for that prick. And the border, I can’t take anymore of his shit, it’ll fuckin’ kill me.” _He’ll kill me._ Enzo’s voice softened, and the spark of the cigarette glowed orange as he took a breath.

“Hey remember about four five weeks ago you told me to stop crying about Marcello because it will ruin me?” Mickey smiled, and took the smoke from him. “With all you say he has done, I’d try to work it out, or just say ‘fuck him’ and be done with it.”

            “Yeah,” Mick breathed, “fuck him.”

            “Fuck him,” Enzo whispered and leaned into kiss him. Mickey’s sore fingers slid through Enzo’s damp hair, and Enzo reached to push Mickey’s back in so that their chests touched. His lips reached a soft spot behind his ear, and he sucked his skin so that a bruise would stay in the morning. Mickey bit his lip, and heat grew in his groin. The cigarette fell to the ground, and with the starry night, and another cute redhead nibbling around his ear, someone who had gone the ends to the Earth just to help him clear his name, it was hard to think anything other than “fuck Ian.” Mick touched at Enzo’s cock, and felt him hum into his neck at the contact. _Yeah,_ Mickey declared, _fuck him._


	13. MICKEY

            In Mexico the weather changed throughout the year in ways that were nearly undetectable. While it had almost been Spring when they burned down the hotel, it was only a couple weeks before Summer now, and not much had changed. Rain sheets fell between humid heat, and turned the grass green, but all other differences that came had nothing to do with the climate.

            Less than a week after the fire, the police had come to Enzo’s apartment asking about his knowledge of a fugitive staying at his establishment. He’d tried hard to not smile. And when the short list of the deceased scrolled on a local news station, following a “tragic fire, killing eight people, some yet to be identified,” they nearly jumped out of their seats as they spoke of the American fugitive as one of the dead victims.

            And in the three months that followed, months they’d spent locking in each other’s heat and kissing each other’s jaw, they’d long surpassed friends, _or fuck buddies_. As they existed in the warmth, cooling themselves with the comfort of one another’s company, Mickey was slowly forgetting his inclination to return to Chicago. He could see it in Enzo too. His eyes didn’t look to him with shifts of irritation, but stretches of ardor Mickey couldn’t match. He hated to think that Enzo was beginning to feel so much for him, with Marcello still in Brazil, and his unmended broken heart, but he could tell he was soothing Enzo’s soul in a way that was scary, and unbalanced in a sad stretch of angels.

            He liked him, he would’ve even referred to him as his boyfriend, had they granted each other the need for the title. He was torn in the best way by what he and Enzo had, but, he had to go back to Chicago. He _had_ to. Something else screaming inside him demanded it. Still, the day Enzo had been making breakfast for them while Mickey counted money at the table, and he’d dramatically shot into the air, “Mickey—I _really_ like you.” It burned his stomach with strange and delicious anxiety. They’d let the eggs burn that morning.

           “I think you would’ve made a cute redhead, Mikhailo.” Mickey had confided to him the other night that he had a soft spot for redheads, and now, as they dyed Mickey’s hair, he’d chosen to taunt him with stupid, embarrassing plucks of wit.

           The bleach he worked into his hair was gloppy, cold, and gross on Mickey’s scalp, like when his aunt used to force thick pounds of gel into his hair when he was a kid, but a thousand times worse. It hurt like shit, and Enzo lathered it in thick and rough. Mick loathed every second of it. He understood that it was necessary; his hair was too dark to dye a lighter color on its own, but it still burned his scalp in annoying aches.

           “Shut the hell up, and stop fuckin’ calling me that.” Mickey’s hair had grown to a considerable length since they burned the building. About two inches thicker, it wrapped around his head in smooth tufts, the longest pieces he could pull to the middle of his nose. His fingers were healed too, pink rippling scars left in the places that had once been sore, red scratchiness.

          “I still think so.” They rinsed the bleach out in the bathroom, and let his scalp breath, as Enzo shook up the bottle of a light, caramel brown. “You want to look before I put in the color?” Mickey sighed, he was scared of what he might see, but looked into the mirror above the sink anyway.

          “Je-suuus,” he moaned. It was a light, brassy, pale blond. Horrible. He looked like someone he would’ve beat up in high school. “A’ight, I’ve seen enough, put on the other one, so I don’t have to look at this shit anymore.” Enzo chuckled and started to pull the color through his hair.

           When he was done, and they’d rinsed and dried it, it looked better, nothing Mickey was a fan of, but he figured he’d just have to get used to it. _Gonna have to find someone to touch this shit up when I get back to Chicago, too._ It was now, a warm, soft brown color, bridging on dark blond, his roots were darker than the ends, fading it into a subtle ombre that stood in a long, ruffled quiff on top of his head. Sighing, he grabbed the skinny black comb off the counter and brushed it back, trying different styles, and doing his best to slick it into something that he actually liked. It didn’t take long for him to give up, sweeping all of it into a sloppy side part without another care.

           Setting the comb back down, he hadn’t noticed Enzo walk out of the bathroom. But he did notice when he came back, carrying a pair of thick framed black glasses. They were cheap looking, fit to some vegan hipster with a full beard and faux suede shoes. He held them out to Mickey and he looked down to the black specs as though he was staring at road kill.

          “Not wearing that,” he looked away, and back into the mirror, patting the back of his hair down as though it’d somehow wipe away his hatred of the color.

          “You don’t have to all the time, just when you work, and you know, when you do things like that. Just try.” Mickey gave a reluctant huff and plucked them from his hands by the plastic frame. He fit them behind his ears and pushed them up his nose.

            It was that, along with the pastel button up he’d tried on, and the brownish blondish hair topping him that tied Nick Greer together. He really didn’t look like himself. And he knew that was supposed to be a good thing, but it aggravated him that he couldn’t just be a free Mickey Milkovich, opposed to a free _Nick Greer_. _Made my bed, gotta lie in it, I guess._ “You look handsome.”

         “I look like gay Clark Kent.”                                                                 

         Enzo took a digital camera from a black backpack and took a picture of him to use for his ID. As soon as the camera flashed, and the photo was taken, Mickey tore off the glasses and leaned his head to the wall, exasperated. “Now, what is your story?” Mick rolled his eyes so hard, it would’ve stirred a bratty teenage girl.

          “Name’s Nick Paul Greer, grew up in Aurora, Colorado. Adopted into a middle class family of morticians, only child. College dropout, dog Grubbs died when I was twenty one, moved to Chicago ‘cause I liked it better when my family would visit Illinois for spring break, mom an’ pop kicked the bucket, so there was no point in staying there.” Enzo clapped his hands in sardonic smacks. “Jesus can we give it a rest now, fuck, I’m sick’a this shit.” Enzo smiled.

          “Yes, Mickey, or _Nick_ ,” he teased.

          They sat on the sofa next to each other, and Enzo laid his arm across the top of the couch behind Mickey after they slid in a movie. “I should have your ID and passport ready next Wednesday, and then you can leave.”

           Mickey looked to him, sensing the sadness in his voice. _Won’t ever see the guy again._ They’d spent nearly every day of the last six months together, and halfway through it they’d made the bittersweet decision to make their growing friendship much more. A blessing and a curse, their time together was well spent, but the goodbye was made much harder than it had to be. _Knowin’ you ain’t gonna see someone again, does sorta feel like they’re dying._ It would be the second time he’d felt it, and the first time had nearly crushed him.

         “Eh, we could write couldn’t we?” Mickey offered, Enzo quirked a smile. His voice was soft with sarcasm.

         “When either of us get a permanent address.” Mickey’s lips pursed. He still didn’t have a place to stay in Chicago, and he knew Enzo planned on going back to Brazil soon. “Let us just enjoy the time we have.”

          The sex that night was sweet and slow, like holding onto a fading memory.

 

“I have a job interview for you set up next week at three, here’s your ID, passport, birth certificate, social security card, money.” Enzo fingered through a folder again, making sure it was all there. He spoke with the same tone of voice a mother might use before she sent her child off to their first day of school. His eyes were glass. “Let’s go.”

            They went outside and Mickey started walking to the driveway where Enzo’s car was parked on tan pavement. The once dry plants that lined the way up to the door had bloomed into bundles of wet greenery that blew in a sullen, soft wind. Mickey’s duffel was heavy on his shoulder, packed with clothes, documents, a couple pairs of shoes, and few thousand dollars that was a mixture of Ian’s and a smidge of what the hotel had been worth. Enzo had given him a phone.

            They’d agreed on driving to the border together, passing through at the same time, Enzo would drive him a little distance into Texas, where he could call a cab to take him to the nearest national bus stop, skipping around between trains and buses until he made it to Chicago. And yet, Enzo was still standing on the porch, arms crossed, he tapped a finger to his bicep.

            “Yo, man, you gonna drive me there or what?” Enzo smiled weakly.

            “Drive yourself.” Mickey caught the keys into his chest when he tossed them, and looked to him with wide, humbled eyes.

            “Fuck.”

            “Something to remember me by.” He threw back. Mickey tried to not grin too wide. _A car._ He was pretty sure that the list of things he could possibly give to him was completely checked off.

            Rushing back up the porch steps, he yanked Enzo’s neck down to his, pressing their lips together. Their mouths swam in tied pink flesh, locked in mutual pain, and circumstance. He was the only person he’d met that had ever experienced close to the things he’d had, and it was a nice sentiment, but he had to let go now. They pulled away, and Enzo shrugged. “I got six more in Brazil, I’ll be there soon enough to have another one, just make sure you get the plates changed when you get back.” Another sad smile slipped his lip, “Now go, you have a long trip ahead of you.” Mickey nodded, and slapped his shoulder, smoothing Enzo’s shirt with lingering fingers. He was about to open the door when he remembered to say it.

            “Eh, Enzo,”

            “Yes, gringo?”

            “Thanks.” It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t _next_ to enough, but in the heat of Mexico, and nothing to give him in return, it was all he could breathe into the softness of the air.


	14. IAN

            “ _Mickey_?” Ian’s voice quivered on stunned air as he gazed into the pale of his skin. His hair ran along his head in deep black threads, and the couch he sat on was a green and brick plaid. A brown blanket hung on the arm, and a large flat screen faced the sofa, sitting inside a shelved stand that held books and movies. A plush chestnut carpet floored the living room, splitting into a small glossy, wooden cut out that connected the dining area. The table that sat atop the honey floor was dark mahogany with a red table runner and six seats.

            “Yeah?” He said, as he flipped through a newspaper, wearing thin, silver framed glasses on the edge of his nose. His shirt was a striped oxford, and smooth khakis swung around his legs, chestnut loafers held his feet. _Jesus, it’s not the nineteen-fifties._

            “Whose house is this?” Ian ran fingers along the smooth shine of the table, and found that his arms were also banded in an oxford shirt, a solid olive green that brought out his eyes. His pants were dark brown, and his shoes were a perfect, reflective black. Fit on the forth finger of his left hand was a white gold band, and as he shot his eyes back to Mickey, he found he wore a similar ring on the same digit.

            “Um, ours,” Mickey took off his glasses and folded them with his newspaper. “You feelin’ alright, Ian?” Ian nodded.

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m alright.” There was some part of it that seemed familiar, but another part that begged a strangeness he couldn’t put his finger on. No matter the oddity, the place was plastic perfect, a Hollywood set from a high budget blockbuster.

            “Daddy!” A voice poured. A boy of six or so ran from the outside of the house, hands white and dusty from chalk and dirt. “Look what I did outside!” _Daddy_?

            He walked out with the child, greeted by a paved patio, surrounded by a beautiful back garden, flawlessly landscaped with paths of red stone slabs, and rows of thriving plant life. White honeysuckle, blue bells, carnations, and red roses with baby breath. They grew in settled pockets surrounding an elegant lawn, spiked with perfect blades of green grass.

            The patio was scribbled with chalk drawings of the three of them. The two tallest wonky figures stood next to each other, holding hands, obvious caricatures of Ian and Mickey. He’d colored the top of Ian’s hair pink and Mickey’s a heavy blue. Skinny arrows flung from their portraits, “Daddy,” written next to Ian’s and “Papa” scrawled next to Mickey’s. Next to the kid’s picture “Rodney” was scratched in yellow streaks. _Rodney_? Ian grimaced; he hated that name.

            “Nice job.” Ian smiled. Mickey had come from the house and stood outside next to him, looking at the chalk drawings. Mickey chuckled, a strange delight flushing his cheeks.

            “A’ight, kiddo, come on in, get washed up, got dinner ready.” Ian stifled the amusement about to slip his lip. _Mickey_? _Cooking dinner?_

            When they came back in, Mick set the table, complete with pretty silver utensils and gleaming, square, ceramic dishes. The course was a beautiful chicken Alfredo, complimented with bundles of steamed broccoli that cornered the plate next to the pasta. He felt strangely at home, as though it was the place he was supposed to be all along, and the whiff of pure peace and warm love ran streams of pleasure deep into his bones.

             As they ate their meal, which tasted just a gorgeous as it looked, he tried his best to not stare at Mickey with the fear that he might disappear at any moment. He felt neither elated to see him again, nor filled with misery at the sight of a man supposed to be six feet under. Instead, somewhere in between, somewhere he belonged, as though Mickey had never been dead at all.

            When Mick caught his small stare, he gave a half grin, and Ian’s face shocked hues of pink, before Mickey gave a small, innocent touch to his thigh underneath the table. Their son rambled about some new kid at school, as Ian smiled back at Mickey.

            It was surreal, an idealistic world he’d thought he’d never come to know. And as he thought on it, he found himself realizing what that sense of familiarity, and what that unidentifiable connection to the house was. _It’s home._ That’s what that feeling of perfection was. He was home.

            The next few days took a similar pattern, breakfast, dropping their son off to school and heading to work. They were both therapists and worked in a small office, mainly with adults, recovering addicts, grieving older women, and soldiers suffering from PTSD. Ian hadn’t ever seen himself as a therapist, but he fit the role well. It came to him naturally, almost effortless.

            After work they would pick up Rodney from school, take him home, hound him to do his homework instead of playing transformers and then sit at the table to eat dinner. The food was always hot and heavenly. _Didn’t know he could cook,_ Ian had thought one night as he bit into a tender steak. The rest of the evening consisted of tucking in their son, and retiring to their room to lie down as well. They would both kiss each other sweetly and make love on soft sheets before they slept.

            Ian was taking a long sip of crimson wine as he listened to his husband complain about one of his clients. “Like Jesus, f—” He looked to Rodney and waved his swear. “Why don’t you just try? Why the hell are you even there, if you plan on sittin’ and staring at me for forty-five minutes?” Ian shrugged.

            “Maybe he’s shy Mick. You’re not supposed to be talking about clients any way.”

            “Who gives a crap?” Rodney giggled and gulped Hawaiian punch from a Superman cup. “He ain’t shy, he’s just a moody prick that needs to actually give doing something about his damn mood a try.”

            Ian took another sip of wine, and hung on its tart sweetness, setting it down with too much force. The glass tipped over. “Shit,” he swore, as it poured onto the shiny floor. He reached for the napkin next to his plate to soak it up, and pressed it into the wine. But, a single drop did not spoil the cloth. It stayed staining the ground, and the flow of the dark red drink from the tipped cup wasn’t waning. On the contrary, it was falling in constant, powerful rushes, like a water fall. Even when it should have been empty, it continued to release near black drops of wine onto the floor. The spillage was spreading, deeper and darker, making a window of blackness. He did his best to clean it, wipe it, even just slosh it around a little, but his attempts were without use.

            “What the fuck?” He exclaimed. His family was ignoring him, Rodney rushing his words to form sentences about a new toy he’d seen on a Nickelodeon commercial. Ian pushed his hand into the wide splash of wine in one last effort to move it, and while it still wasn’t moving, and it still wasn’t splashing, it _was_ sinking into a deep hole, and before Ian could release another swear of surprise, he was falling through it.

            Entering some strange, dark portal that led him out of the place he’d been calling home for what seemed like the past few days, and into the hall of a hospital, his family surrounding him, smiling, whispering warped speech like they were talking underwater. Their faces began to melt as though they were a freshly painted painting, smeared by the fingers of an ill behaved child, slowly dissolving into a wet nothingness.

Ian stepped back from them, disgusted and terrified at their strange liquefaction. He was turning to walk away, when his heart thudded at the other half of the hall. Instead of seeing another part of the hospital, he was greeted by a dark, empty, train tunnel, and he flung his head back around at the sudden change of scenery, searching for the bleached linoleum again. But his melted family was no longer behind him. The world was only made by the stone jaws of the dark, and the only light came from a tiny opening at the end of it, a glowing sparkle that murmured safety through the oblivion. He started towards it, walking, and then running.

            Running. Running as quick as he could float air in and out of his lungs. His steps were light and swift on the tracks, like he was gliding along the ground. He kept going, the light getting closer and closer. The house was at the end. His house, the perfect house, with Mickey, and Rodney, and the garden with roses. They were by the porch, smiling, Mickey was waving at him, and Rodney cried, “Daddy!” as he wheeled around on a tricycle.

            “I’m coming, you guys!” Ian screamed back through the tunnel. His voice reverberated louder than the he’d thought it would. _Echoes aren’t supposed to be that damn loud, are they_? It was piercingly loud, so loud that he covered his ears and staggered at the volume.

            “ _I’m coming!_ ” It yelled back, almost mockingly. “ _I’m coming!_ ”

            Eventually it molded into something that was not his echo, but echoing voices around him. It was physical this time, not swimming his mind, but shooting his ears in relentless rounds. Deafening. “ _Stupid boy_! _Stupid_!” They were whispers, yet they somehow screamed in the dark, coming from all directions as all different entities. “ _Stupid!_ ” One screamed.

            “ _Do you really think he cared about you_?” Another sounded.

            “ _Stupid_!”

            “ _Murderer!_ ”

            “ _He never cared about you. You killed him! He hates you_!”

            “ _NO_!” Ian covered his ears as he ran through the train tunnel, but the shining sun flooding through the exit was only getting dimmer the closer he ran towards it, shrinking until the only light in the distance was an oncoming train. “ _NO! YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!_ ” His voice echoed off the walls again, and the only response he received from them was laughter.

            Screechy, nail-on-a-chalkboard laughter, so loud he felt like dying. Listening to them chortle through the darkness only grew blurry tears in his eyes, and dropped him onto the hard rails, banging his knees and crippling him. _They’re laughing at me. At me, and everything I care about._

            It was all a game. All of it. And it hit him in the face with an unpronounced blow. His world with Mickey was not perfect; it was a joke, a fine gag at what would never be. And they’d known it all along. They were _laughing_ at it, and at him for believing it. He was their favorite comedy. _And I sure gave them a show._

            When he didn’t think it could get any louder, it did. Ringing like church bells in his ears until he could no longer withstand the sound of it, despite his hands nearly shoving his ears inside his head. The toot of the rushing train was the only difference in noise, and as he looked up, he saw into it, dark and rusty, and growing closer. The teeth of the cowcatcher were charging toward him. Grunting and steaming; it roared with speed. Its headlights hit his face, and when it was only a foot away from him, and the lights shrunk his pupils, he didn’t move, or suddenly jerk off the tracks in fear. He stayed on them, and looked to the lights with longing.

 

“Bitch, don’t fucking do that!” Ian’s eyes flashed open, and his left hand grabbed the brunette nurse’s wrist. She was changing his catheter, and the pain of it engulfed him, and bit his crotch as though she’d taken a knife and ripped it out of his dick. She immediately called for the doctor, but she didn’t lift her hand from a spot near his privates. Ian grunted. “Stop touching me, stop touching my dick, bitch!” He held his grip on her hand and tried to shake it off of him. The only things he’d been able to comprehend was the pain searing through his groin, and her dark locks, before he dropped back into the dark.

 

The next day he could feel circles being drawn on his thumb, and his eyelashes flutter on his face, but he did not move again.

 

Carl’s voice, “Keep you clean, man.” Then there was a cold wet metal scrape on his jaw.

 

“But he already woke up once, why didn’t he stay up?” Fiona.

            “Yeah, when will he like, be up for good?” Debbie.

            “We’re slowly weaning him off the sedatives that induced it. It won’t happen all at once.” A woman’s voice; someone he didn’t know.

 

“Hey man, I’m, uh, I’m sober.” Lip. “Almost wasn’t.” A deep breath. “When I found out, about the, accident, I really wanted a drink, y’know, seein’ you like this.” Another deep breath. “But I didn’t. I hope you wake up soon. Everyone’s getting’ worried.” Ian could almost feel his lips tug into a sad smile. He was pretty sure there was a small twitch in his hand as well. “You know, the doc said you almost gave the nurse a heart attack when you grabbed her arm.” It was torture. Hearing his brother speak to him, and feeling caught in so deep a sludge he couldn’t utter a word back. _Goddammit, say something._ But his lips did not move.

 

On a Tuesday he gripped his sheets and held a small hand, listening to Liam. “Ian, wake up soon.” That time he was sure he smiled.

 

He woke up briefly again that night, seeing into the darkness with strange tunnel vision. People in the room were talking.

            “Rodney, charge them up, look at his heart rate!” It was a woman’s voice.

            “I am, I am, Jesus.” And then a loud, “Clear!” And then an electrical sound. Several times. The last thing Ian heard was a flat beep, and the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes again was a young man rolled out of the room in a hospital bed.

 

When he opened his eyes for the third time, it wasn’t so abrupt. It was a gradual butterfly flutter of pale eyelashes, led by a deep, sore breath. His head felt like it was made of air. “Ian!” Debbie nearly screamed, sitting on a blue and black-plastic chair next to his bed. She yelled for a doctor, and he winced at her volume.

            The room was white, as were most hospitals, filled with hospital whites, and hospital greens, and hospital blues, all boring light, pale colors that flipped over the tile, the ventilators and his papery gown. Tubes from an oxygen cannula tickled the inside of his nose, and a curtain separated him from another critically ill patient, currently snoring into the quiet room. His entire right arm was casted, fresh, red scars striping his fingers, and scabs recovering on parts of his neck. His shoulder on the same side was stiff, immobile. His left side was the only thing that looked near healthy.   

            The doctor that came through the doors of the ICU was a sweet looking Asian woman in her thirties, wearing thin glasses. They ran down mandatory, conversation to be expected from a patient regaining their consciousness. Speaking about his last memory, his recovery time complications, she said his scars were from the accident, and it all fuzzed through his mind in flashes of blood and scratched metal. She said he was going to be all right.

            “And your sister Fiona, she was rather—adamant on you seeing a psychiatrist after you woke up, so we’re working on setting up an appointment for that. Do you have any questions?”

            “Just, how long until, this will all be healed?” His voice was creaky and gross.

            “Well, your fingers have been healing rather well for the duration of your comatose state, but the wounds that are more severe are obviously going to require some more time. We’ll give you a sling for your shoulder. Wear that for a few weeks, and it should be looking a lot better soon, it’s gotten about half way through its healing process as you’ve been asleep. And though, you’re arm shouldn’t require the cast for more than another month, after that, physical therapy will be highly recommended.”

            “But, it’ll be okay, I’ll be able to use it again?” Ian’s heart thumped a murmur of panic, at her mention of physical therapy. _That’s what disabled people do, isn’t it_?

            “You’ll definitely be able to use it again, but some weakness will remain for at least a few months after. That wreck was pretty nasty, Ian, and given your condition, you’re actually quite lucky.” She threw some papers over a clipboard and politely smiled. “I’ll be back with you in a moment. Give you guys some time together.” She looked to Debbie, and Debbie smiled back at Ian as she left.

            “Fiona, Lip, and Carl are on their way with Liam. I texted them the good news. Are you okay?” Ian scrunched his face and glared at his casted limbs

            “No, Debs, not at the moment, no.”

            “Sorry, that’s a stupid question—but, how do you feel?” He ignored her question.

            “Wait, you said Carl?”

            “Ope, yeah, he’s out for the summer.”

            “The summer, h-how long have I been out?”

            “Couple weeks. It’s not actually summer, yet, but, y’know, some school’s let’cha out a little bit before.”

            “But, it’s almost summer?” She nodded. “Fuck.”

            “Hey, it’s okay, they say you’re gonna make a full recovery, you only have to wear that stuff for a few more weeks anyways. Don’t sweat it.”

            “Easy for you to say,” he grumbled, and then let out a dry cough, “where’s Franny?”

            “With Neil, she was sleepin’ when I left.”

            “Hey man,” Lip sounded as he walked through the door, Carl at his side. Fiona followed closely behind him, tugging Liam’s hand.

            “We usually don’t allow this many visitors, so please be concise.” A nurse said before she left back out of the ICU and into the waiting room. Fiona rolled her eyes at her.

            “Shithead tried to tell me Liam couldn’t come in ‘cause he was too young to be by himself as a non-related visitor, and when I told her he was our brother, she didn’t believe me at first. Racist bitch.” Fiona’s complaining lightened spirits, and Ian’s laugh came out gurgled and croaky.

            “What did you say to her?”

            “I called her a racist bitch.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

            Ian strained another laugh, “How have you guys been?”

            “Think we’re the ones that should be askin’ _you_ that, Ian. How’ve you been comin’ up?” Fiona released Liam’s hand and pressed her hands onto her waist.

            “Okay, I think, ‘bout the same as anyone else waking up from a coma.”

            “Ian!” Liam ran to his bedside, and flung weightless arms around the parts of his torso that he could reach. Fiona pulled a chair next to Carl, and Liam ran back to sit on her lap. Lip stood.

            “You know, Carl came here, almost every day since he’s been back, kept ya shaved, and lookin’ like yourself.”

            “Don’t want you to wake up to a lumberjack,” Carl quipped.

            “Thanks, dude.” Ian’s voice was warming a bit as he used it.

            “Yeah, even Kev and V showed up a couple times. We were all getting a little um, riled up, waiting you to come out of it. Doctor said it wouldn’t take this long.” Lip fidgeted and shoved his hands in his pockets. It was clear he was itching for a smoke.

            “Phew, yah, they had to put’cha to sleep so your head wouldn’t explode or whatever. But, those doctors told us you’d be up a little while after they took you off the sedatives. You were takin’ a little longer to wake up than normal.”

            “Well, I’m fine,” he huffed, tiring of the subject. “Can someone just tell me when the hell I can get out of this place?”

            “Few days,” Carl answered, and Ian nodded, annoyed and dissapointed. He wanted to get the fuck out now. The beeping of the machines and the hums of the ventilators were driving him insane.

  * _But you’re used to loud noises, aren’t you?_



            “Fuck, those fucks again.” Ian pressed his healthy palm to the bridge of his brow. He didn’t realize it’d left his lips until he saw his family exchanging strange glances.

            “Wah—you alright?” Debs was sitting closest to him, and she reached to touch his hand.

            “Yeah, yeah, just fuckin’ tired.” _Shouldn’t be; had one helluva nap._ But he was, and he fought his lethargy only long enough to speak with his family, who’d shown him more concern now, than they had in a long time. It was nice to hear them talk about themselves too. If he hadn’t had their issues to listen to, for a little while, he would’ve only been left to dwell on his own, or have another unwelcome party to remind him of them.      

  * _Unwelcome are we_?



            _Dude, fuck off-uh_.

 

The days went by with a kind pace.

            As he’d been there for the remainder of the stay preceding his discharge, the nurses had been helping him to walk again. _Didn’t know even a few weeks knocked out could make you this weak._ When he’d come off the bed, he’d done it with wobbly calf legs, that had nearly dragged him to his feet, and when he looked in the mirror, his face may have been clean shaven, but his cheekbones were high and sharp; gaunt. _Like a ghost._ He’d made progress fast though, and when the time came to leave, he was happy to hear he wouldn’t need a wheelchair to do so.

            Once they’d unplugged him from all he’d needed to be rid of, nearly screaming and calling the nurse a bitch again when they ripped out his catheter, he sat on the bed  next to Fiona, who was about to walk out with him to drive him home. She’d brought clothes for him to change into and he sat on the bed in the jeans, boots, light t-shirt and jacket she’d packed. He was trying to tighten his shoelaces with one hand, finding it to be, evidently, a difficult and useless task.

             The doctor spoke more about aftercare, and a bunch of other bullshit that Fiona was nodding along to and Ian was ignoring with painstaking effort. They had an appointment set up for the psychiatrist in a week, and the sling they’d given him was an annoying thing that pulled on his neck, and stilled his shoulder. _Least it’s doin’ its job._

            “Brad.” He remembered. He hadn’t even bothered to ask about him until now. He’d been too distracted by his own burdensome recovery and the visits from his family that he’d looked forward to every day.

            “Excuse me?” The doctor questioned. Her head gave a slight tilt.

            “Brad Michael, he was in the accident with me. How’s he doing, he’s not dead or anything is he?”

            “Oh, Brad Michael, yes, he’s actually.” The way her eyes closed underneath her glasses when she sighed was not at all comforting. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but he _did_ pass away a few nights ago, cardiac arrest. He went while he was comatose, didn’t feel a thing.” Ian’s head fell to the ground, and he wiped his nose and his eyes though there were no tears to wash away. _That dry grieving phase again_ , he thought. “Were you two close?” Ian’s breath rattled and he lifted his head, looking at nothing in particular.

            “He made me smile.”


	15. IAN

* * *

_Sergio. Brad. Mickey._

            _After three people die because of something you did and voices keep calling you a murderer,_ _it’s hard not to believe it._

            Guilt burned in Ian’s chest every time he took a breath, and the faces of the people he’d let die faced him every time he closed his eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, had it still only been Mickey he was grieving over, but now he had Brad’s blood on his hands too. As time had passed, the memories were no longer as blurry, and he could recount with clear imagery Brad’s head bouncing off the roof of the car, red dripping from his mouth after they’d plummeted into the ground. It shook his shoulders and grated his skin with more self hatred than he thought possible for one person to lug around.

            Both of them dying had killed a part of him. Mickey, still, more than Brad. Even though he’d been more closely connected to the deaths of Brad and Sergio, Mickey being gone had yet to lift from his mourning soul. For all that tied him to his former lover, and the way his blood ran with a touch of Mickey’s, he could not abate the pang of remorse he felt for not being there to make sure his death hadn’t happened. He could’ve saved him. Whatever building had been scorching Mick’s hair, he could’ve ran into. He could’ve ran into it, and led him out, and made sure he was okay. Somehow, someway, he would’ve prevented it.

            Brad and Sergio were a different case. Any other person in their right mind wouldn’t have elected Ian to make the decision to get into a gang car in a drag race. It was stupid, and dumb, and reckless, and he’d been drunk and high, only adding to the madness of it. _Brad wasn’t exactly in his right mind either_ , he managed to account, and he knew Sergio would’ve driven off without them. _But maybe if we weren’t there to distract him…_ He didn’t know, he didn’t know exactly how he would’ve helped Mickey either, but it appeared that everywhere he went that he shouldn’t have, and everywhere he stayed that he shouldn’t have somehow ended up killing someone. _No matter where I am, I just bring bad luck._ Like an angel of death.

            It’d been a week since they’d let him out of the hospital, and he sat in the waiting room of the same building, mulling over all of it as he waited on his appointment with the psychiatrist. Fiona really had been “ _adamant_ ,” as the doctor had put it, on making sure he saw the guy. Nearly every day since he’d been home, her presence beckoned a “don’t forget you have an appointment in a few days,” or a, “you remember you got an appointment, right?” and when she’d asked to drive him, and he, tired of her annoying blusters, had opted for the train, she’d let him out with a “don’t be late to your appointment.”

            He was listening to something by a band he didn’t know when an old man with tough skin and a shortly cut snowy beard stepped out into the waiting room to call his name. His smile was brimmed with politeness, and Ian followed him down the white halls and into a tight office, where he introduced himself as Dr. Gordon. The desk he sat in was black and L-shaped metal, fitting into the corner of the room. Ian sat across from him in a chair against the wall, examining the several shelves that hung above his desk, carrying volumes of books on psychology, treatments of mental illness, and thoughts on hope and healing. He typed on his computer as he talked. “So, Ian Gallagher, how’s your day going so far?”

            “All right.” He’d begun to be rather indifferent to however “the day” went, with most of them filled with all around discontent.

            “How’s your arm doing?” He adjusted the hard cast with his free hand, trying to situate it as best he could, without yanking the strap of the sling down too hard and choking himself into another coma.

            “I can’t really tell.” The doctor gave a small laugh.

            “Yeah, I’d imagine that’d be hard to determine right now, all tied up.” He clicked some more on his computer before he turned around to look at Ian. “So, I know you’re just up from a coma, how are you doing?”

            “Could be better, just,” Ian didn’t beat around the bush, “look, I’m only here because my sister really wanted me to come.” The doctor nodded, taking a sip of coffee from a thermal mug.

            “I know, I just wanted to see what _you_ would say. Did she at least tell you why she wanted you to see me?” Ian shook his head.

            “No.”

            The man took a deep breath, “Well Ian, I understand you’re bipolar,” Ian nodded. “Your _sister_ is afraid you might be manic.” Ian froze and let his left hand fist itself, the fingers peeking from the cast, curled just as tightly and the sounds of his knuckles popping when he released them flew into the air. It was an instinctive defense, perpetuated by a feeling that he was being attacked. _You can’t be fucking serious._ He lolled his head onto the wall behind him and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Aggravation boiled his nerve endings, and he ran his hand over his face, shaking his head with a temper the size of bullet casing.

            “No, no I’m not. She’s…” He took the time to breathe before he let himself burst into a blue blaze. “What did she tell you?”

            “Well, she mentioned the partying, the drugs, reckless behavior. It’s understandable why she’d think that, but—”

            “But I’m not—I’m not drinking away the world because I feel great, I—was doing that because it’s better than feeling like I should just die and be with all the people that I’ve let die—or forget about all the people I’ve let down, or pushed away, or cussed out—” The psychiatrist, held a hand speckled with sunspots. His fingers were rough and puffy.

            “C- Calm down, now, I wasn’t going to say that I necessarily agree with her.” Ian sank back into the seat, and swallowed, embarrassed at his overreaction. He pressed his left arm to support his right.

            “Oh.”

            “She also mentioned that you’d lost someone recently that you cared a lot about.” He took a deep breath and crossed legs covered in brown slacks that spread across his thighs. The fabric looked slick as butter. “Sometimes depression can be just as reckless as mania, can’t it?” His grin was kind and he pressed a finger onto the side of his cheek. Ian swallowed, and his lips curled a bit upward as well. _Guess someone finally gets it._ “Now, I just need to ask you a few assessment questions, it’s not so long, don’t worry.” He turned back around to the computer at his desk, scurrying the mouse across the screen as he read off the list. “Has there been any increase in your anxiety?” Ian shrugged with the shoulder that would allow it.

            “Not really.”

            “Feelings of hopelessness, emptiness, loss of interest in things you once found enjoyable?” Ian released a nervous chuckle.

            “Yeah.”

            “Figured so on that one. Suicidal thoughts, actions?” Something grumbled in Ian’s stomach. He wasn’t suicidal. But the little men twinkling words of hatred inside his mind would probably like it if he was dead.

  * _Finally. You get it._



            They certainly loved to mock him. “No.”

            “And, I’m sure you’re good on this but, um, any hallucinations, seeing or hearing things that aren’t real?” A wad of cotton dried the back of Ian’s throat, and he forced it down, clouds culminating within his mind. He _wished_ it wasn’t applicable.

            “Like…hearing voices, or something?” The doctor swiveled in his chair again, away from his computer, he looked intently at Ian. His head twisted with intrigue, and he patted a fleshy hand onto his knee.

            “Yes…have you been hearing any voices, Ian?”

            “I don’t—I’m not.” He’d let his responses to the voices shine in and out of his words several times now, but no one actually _knew_. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. The last thing he needed was for people to think he was _seriously_ mad; send him off to some residential mental facility, electrodes nailed in his skull, shocking him until he was some undead creature with white eyes.

            But, he also wanted them to go away. He wanted to be able to think for a minute without them intervening, or giving unbidden retorts and slaps of relentless insults. And if he was going to tell anyone, he’d prefer it to be a professional. His family would only worry and watch him. _Confidentiality and shit, right_? The air rushed through his nose. “Yeah, I have. But it’s never happened before. And I don’t know why it is now, but it’s really bad—it’s sorta the reason I was going out and getting high in the first place. I just wanted to stop having to hear that shit for few seconds, so I wouldn’t end up bashing my head in with a baseball bat.” The doctor turned to inspect Ian’s file on the computer again.

            “Bipolar I with psychosis,” he read. “So, you do have a history of psychotic symptoms, but no voices?” Ian shook his head. “And…it…says here you’ve been prescribed lithium, and olanzapine, or—Zyprexa. Have you been taking your medication?”

            “Well, the lithium, yeah, but my Zyprexa, I never…really…got…refilled.” He could feel the stupidity dripping from his mouth as the words left his lips.

            “Mmmmmm, Ian. You’re depressed right now, and you haven’t been taking your antipsychotic medications, depression settling in, complicated grief—” he stopped himself, chuckling with irritation. “Do I need to explain why this all may have been triggered?” Ian sighed.

            “No, no, I guess not.” The doctor wagged his head at him, pulling a prescription pad and pen from the corner of his desk. _I didn’t think it could make that much of a damn difference._

            “I’m writing you a prescription right now, so you can go get your medications refilled as soon as this appointment’s over. Once you lift,” he did a motion with his pen before he wrote, “from this depression, it should relieve some of these symptoms too. Are you okay on lithium?”

            “Think I’ll be alright for a few more weeks.”

            “Just write you some more.” He handed him the small purplish slip, and they ran through a few more things for the duration of the appointment, before Ian rose to leave. “All right Ian, let’s get this back under control.” They shook hands, and Ian walked to the hospital pharmacy.

            He felt daft, and stupid, and blind for being so neglectful as to not even consider what the doctor had told him on his own. It’d been so close to his face that it’d nearly touched the tip of his nose. _But I was too busy doing X and coke, and drinking until four a.m. to notice._ Still, if he hadn’t been so negligent to his well being in the first place, he wouldn’t have been as miserable as he was now. His hopes were that it would start working as quickly as it could, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen overnight. He remembered how long it took for him to get used enough to his lithium that he didn’t feel like a zombie dragging his feet through a warm mud. But considering it was a medication he’d actually taken before, he begged it would kick in faster.

            The pharmacy was busy and before he knew it, he’d been sitting there for a little over an hour waiting for them to fill the prescription. When his number finally did show up on the digital screen, he hurried to the window, and swiped the little paper bag from the pharmacist’s hand as soon as she’d stuck it out of the window. Tucking it underneath his broken arm, he pressed it tightly to his chest as he walked from the hospital. _Please, just make them go away_. He didn’t think he’d ever pray to his medication, but he felt more secure now that he had it, like he was holding a shield. It was still in need of shining, and his opponents still fought him with petulant blows. But now, he was glad to find there was some insecurity in the way they striked.

  * _Not going. Shut up. Stupid. Shut up. Not going anywhere. No!_



 

“What’s that?” Lip came from the back door and gestured a lighter to the stapled brown bag that Ian was undoing on the kitchen counter. He still had to get used to using his left hand to do everything. The cast on his right arm went past his elbow, and locked the entire limb in hot, scratchy discomfort. He fantasized about ripping it off and scraping his skin hard with his nails just to relieve himself from the painfully itchy mess.

            “Got my meds refilled.”

            “Oh. Good.” Ian let a deep breath loose at his appraisal. _Bet he’s glad to know I’m taking it._ He removed two orange pill bottles from the bag, and did his best to unscrew them, but forcing it open with his non dominant hand, without another to hold the damn thing still proved similar to trying to solve a Rubik’s cube in the dark. He tried placing the forearm of his cast at the bottom for stability, pressing in the lid to twist it open with his left hand, but the gesture proved more effective in callusing the pads of his fingers. “You need some help?”

            “ _No_.” He hadn’t meant for the venom to taint the way the word came out, but he needed to be able to do some things on his own. His siblings weren’t going to be there every, breathing second to open pill bottles for him. Eventually, he popped it open, and set the little white discs of antipsychotics onto the counter. _Now just gotta crack open the lithium._ He went to reach for the other one, but Lip was already unscrewing it, a tight grimace on his face as he pushed the top down. “Thanks,” Ian mumbled. He ran water in a plastic cup, and tapped the pills onto the back of his tongue, downing them in a single gulp.

            “Doc say anything else?” Lip sat at the table and Ian walked around the counter to sit with him, holding his arm as he situated himself.

            “No, not really, just, that I’m depressed, and ‘complicated grief’ can be a bitch with bipolar. Nothing I didn’t already know.”

            “Well, at least you got your meds dealt with. Were you taking them before the accident?” Lip scratched behind his neck and Ian’s mouth twisted into a knot before he answered.

            “ Yeah…kinda, most the time.” A brash knock split the quiet, and Ian and Lip both looked to each other with equal perplexity. “You expecting someone?”

            “No.” Lip sprung to open the door, and Ian wound his head around and stood, walking a little ways into the living room to see who it was. His stomach filled with cement at the sight. _Tristan_. Ian grew dizzy just looking at him. His thick arms, stained with so much ink it left little color for his skin to shine through, the same stubble that he never seemed to grow any longer, or shave any shorter still bristled his jaw. A black motorcycle was parked to the curb behind him. _Hope he doesn’t want to run me over with it._ From what he’d known, Tristan was just as nice a guy as Brad, _but I still blame myself for everything, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he did too._

  * _Well it is, YOUR FAULT_.



            He walked to the front door, swallowing his nerves as he stood in front of him. “Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” Ian nodded, walking out to stand on the porch so they could speak in private. Lip walked back inside and shut the door behind him. “So, Brad’s dead.” Ian’s nostrils flared, and his eyes misted for a moment.

            “I know.” He let teeth nibble on the inside of his top lip. “We were together, in the ICU.” Tristan nodded.

            “Well, I just wanted to give you this.” Tristan held out a cream invitation with silver calligraphy. _Memorial Service for Brad Michael._ Ian took it from him and swallowed, repulsed.

            “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, and he drew circles across the paper with his thumb. He couldn’t meet Tristan’s stare this time. The amount of blood on his hands was gushing all over his boots

            “It ain’t like it’s your fault. Brad was always gettin’ himself in some sorta trouble.” Ian gulped. _I was the one that wanted us to get into the car, though._ “Anyways, I’m just here, to invite you to the memorial. We're just gonna have a small little thing at our church, had him cremated.”

            “Okay…how’s the rest of your family doing?” Tristan snickered.

            “They don’t give a shit. Parents kicked us to the curb soon as Brad came out and I got engaged to a black girl—I told them about it, but they said they still ain’t gonna come up here for his service.” Ian recoiled. _More fucked up than something my parents woulda done, and that’s saying something._

            “Damn,” he whispered.

            “We’re from North Carolina, lotta people there are still kinda backwards—but, um, you’ll be there?”

            “Yeah, ‘course.” Ian stuck the paper inside his pocket.

            “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you then…hope your arm gets better.” They said goodbye and Ian went back inside. Lip was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter.

            “Who’s the Harley riding giant?” he asked. Ian smiled thinly.

            “Brad’s brother, just, asking me to go to a funeral. Third one I’ve been to after Monica’s and Mickey’s just in these past five—six months, I can’t keep track a time, but, it’s been a bad year so far.” _Sergio. Brad. Mickey._ “Fuck, this is all my fault.” Ian leaned against the counter in the spot next to Lip, and let his throat tighten with sadness.

  * _Yeah no shit! Hope this pussy isn’t gonna cry. Are you going to cry fucking pussy? Pussy, murderer, bitch!_



            He sort of felt like it, but he wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction, even if they weren’t real, they were real to him. And he wasn’t going to surrender to their malevolent pecks of a vocabulary.

            “No, it’s fuckin’ not man, you weren’t the one driving the car.” Lip twisted around at his side and leaned his elbow into the surface.

“No, but I was the one that said we should get in.”

            “Yeah, and he’s an adult, he didn’t have to get in that car if he didn’t want to.” Lip was starting to use a hand to talk, and Ian felt white fire crackling between them already.

            “Lip, I gotta hold some sorta responsibility. I have to, for Brad and Sergio, and I _have_ to for Mickey, there are three dead people connected to _me_.” Ian stabbed his chest with his finger. “Three fucking people!”

            “You weren’t even there when Mickey died, dude, are you fucking delusional?” Ian shook his head. “No, man, you can’t keep blaming yourself for everything little fuckin’ thing, it’s getting—fuckin’ annoying.”

            “Ha! Well, I’m sorry I’m being annoying Lip, but it’s my blame to take, alright? End a story”

            “How the hell, is him burning in a fire, somehow on you? You didn’t wash the building in Mexico with a gallon a diesel and put a match to it.”

            “Stop talking about what you don’t fuckin’ know, alright? You don’t know the _half_ of it.” Ian spoke close to his brother’s face, turning around to lay a hand on the sink, he could sense Lip standing up straight, speaking with a raise of his voice loud enough for spit to spring from his mouth.

            “Yeah, ‘cause you hardly tell me shit anymore, you hardly tell anyone jack-shit anymore! You’ve turned into an entire different fucking person! No one gets the fuck’s up with you, and I’m getting sick of seeing you sitting around feeling sorry for yourself while everyone around you just—” Lip tapped his fists on top of each other “—you don’t know how hard it was seeing you, hooked up to all that shit in the hospital. You looked like you were fucking dead. Stop blaming yourself for—” Ian whisked around to snatch a fistful of the top of Lip’s shirt in his left hand; he tugged him in close, sick of the shit dribbling from his mouth.

            “Stop telling me to stop blaming myself. Okay? It is my fault, _it is._ I. Left. Mickey. At the border of _fucking_ Mexico. I left him there! If I’d gone with him, I would’ve never let him get into that fire, and he wouldn’t be six feet in the ground right now!” Ian flung Lip away, and immediately folded himself into his injured arm, clutching at his shoulder, kept frozen by the uncomfortable sling. The way he’d tensed his muscles when he grabbed him was shooting pain through his wounds.

            “You left him at the border?” Lip began with a question, and then the muscles in his face relaxed and the creases near his brows filled with realization. “Holy shit.” Ian turned to the fridge, and took an ice cold beer from the top shelf. “You saw him when he broke outta prison.” Ian held the bottle to his chest with his cast and twisted the cap off.

            “Don’t act so surprised.” Fog danced from the open bottle and he took a fuzzy sip. “I just wanted to _be_ with him. If things were different, fuck, I probably still would.”

            “You mean, if he was alive, you would’ve gone back to Mexico?” Ian leaned onto the counter and shook his head.

            “No. I mean, if he was never arrested…” _We might’ve had the house with the garden, and the shining wood, and the gold rings, skip the boring therapist clothes and the kid named Rodney, but we might’ve had something better than this shit-show. I wouldn’t have been in the accident, and he wouldn’t be dead, and we could’ve been together._ “…I don’t know.” Ian sighed. “I think I’m gonna call Trevor tomorrow. I know it’s been months, but I still owe him an apology, hopefully he’ll answer this time.”

            “What happened?”

            “I said some shit. Some bad shit, that there’s no coming back from.” Ian finished his beer, dropped the glass into the trashcan and slapped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m gonna go take a nap.”

            By go take a nap, Ian meant laying down and letting the voices try to kill him until his body gave out. Since the meds would take a few weeks before they took full effect, he allowed whatever malicious conversations they initiated to ensue while he lay in bed, trying to fit his arm awkwardly into a position that was somewhat cozy. _Sergio. Brad. Mickey._ He didn’t think he could take anymore guilt. _If anyone else dies, it better be me._

  * _God willing. Kill yourself. You could. Pussy! He could. Hope so. Murderer. Get it over with. Do it. Pills. All your pills. Take them! Pussy! Take them all at once! Now! Bitch! Pussy!_



            Ian laughed cynically, and snapped at the voices aloud, “Don’t get too excited, if I did that, you’d be _dead_ too.”


	16. MICKEY

            Mickey twisted the screwdriver onto the bolts that held his new license plate, securing it onto the back of the car, before he picked up the old one from where he’d placed it on the ground of the parking lot and bashed it into a fold with a hammer, just as Enzo had months ago. He walked to the side of the cheap motel he’d checked into and dropped it into the dumpster before he went back to stand near the Mercedes, taking a second to feel the rush of mid-warm air through black sunglasses. Home was hitting his lips, and he let the light of Chicago’s sun flood his face, reveling in the taste of his home. The worn streets, the diversity of the crowd. It all ran through his new hair, and soft skin, made a bit gold from his time in Mexico.

            _Fuck, it’s good to be back,_ he thought and climbed into the driver’s seat. He’d found the place to stay, only while he searched for apartments, and he hoped to have one picked out by the end of today. He’d not been there but a few days, and he was already tiring of the hard springs of a motel bed, annoyed with the woman that sat at the front desk. Fat and lazy looking, he’d thought she was a man before she’d opened her mouth to speak in a rude, careless voice.

             Lucky for him, he didn’t have a scarcity in his amount of money to hold him back from moving quickly. The amount he’d racked up in Mexico was more than enough money to cover a down payment on some property and at the very least, a couple months rent, and hopefully, if he got this job, he wouldn’t have to worry about it running out either. Hopefully. He hadn’t ever been to an actual job interview. Enzo had said it would be easy, but Mickey knew he’d be more than out of his element, especially considering it was at Whole Foods.

            He was exasperated to find out. He could almost sense the joke in Enzo’s writing. _Still being a smartass even when I ain’t there with him._ The Brazilian had only given him the time and address, and when he’d taken a moment to Google search the location, he was disappointed to see it was at some stupid hippie grocery store. _Not that I’d know where or what the hell would be better._ The building was new, to be expected from some alternative food store bordering the Southside. The logo was clean on the top, and the name was in crisp, bold, black and green text. He took off his sunglasses, and put on the dorky ones Enzo had given him before he walked in, shoving his wallet, keys, and cigarettes into his pocket. They’d already sent in an online application and a fictional résumé, convincing enough by its balance of impressive and not so impressive testimonials, or so Mick hoped.

            When he walked in, the smell of cleaner from the new ground fingered through his nose, along with hints of a strange lilac that sifted the air. A broad array of different fruits, vegetables and organic meats ran through the store, and a woman thin as a gram cracker pushed a cart down an aisle, hair in dreads, her thin, sleeveless top and gypsy skirt revealed white, hairy legs and blond tufts that hung from her armpits. He tried not to stare, and met another woman wearing a black apron with the Whole Foods logo on the front of it. She leaned against the wall, scrolling through her phone.

            “Hey, uh, I’m Nick Greer, got a job interview or som’in, where’s the manager?” He asked her. She was pretty and young with green eyes, deep tan skin, and hair that fell in natural dark ringlets, shiny as silver. Not black, and not Hispanic looking either, _mixed maybe_ , he thought. She nodded her head to a green door fit inside a small cut out in the wall, “MANAGER’S OFFICE” marked the outside of it, right across from a staff bathroom. Mickey smiled a thank you, as another girl with black hair came to stand next to her, they whispered at each other as they looked at him. He discarded of the tension in his throat as he walked down the miniature hallway, and knocked on the door. _Ain’t no way they know who I am_ , he reassured himself.

            “Come on in!” It was a jovial, old sound, and Mickey stepped into a bright office, hands in his pockets, awkwardly. The lights were not the only thing blinding him.

            The extent of the room was layered with a multitude of dog posters, dog pictures, dog frames to fit the pictures, dog figurines, dog lamp shades, a dog clock, dog coffee mugs, and ribbons from winning dog shows, all facing the direction of a large rug in front of the man’s desk that depicted a dog wearing a purple hat. Some of them were old, some of them were puppies, some long haired, some short haired, they made up the entirety of the room, and Mickey gawked at the number of playing pooches he was staring at. He was pretty sure it was filled with more dogs than he’d ever seen in his life. _Birthday presents must be fuckin’ easy._

The man owning the dog shrine was in his fifties or sixties, greeting Mickey with a grin full of sparkling teeth. He was plump and old in a cute way, shorter than Mickey, the only hair he had was on the sides of his head. A walrus mustache capped his upper lip, and his work badge hung from a lanyard covered in black paw prints. “Wow,” Mick uttered under his breath, and looked back, behind him, noting the little Scooby-Doo magnets on a tall gray file cabinet.

            “Well, don’t hurt yer legs now, go on, have a seat.” His smiles ran on forever. Mickey sat in a chair to the side of his desk, an uncomfortable, closed grin coming onto his face. “My, you are a handsome young man, you remind me of myself when I was your age.” Mickey let loose a single chuckle. _Fuck that I’ll look like_ him _at_ his _age._ “So, you are Nick Greer, yep, ten o’clock interview, right here.” He pointed at an appointment folder he was holding, and the blubber at his neck shook as he nodded his head at the sheet. His voice was a sweet, Southern, goofy thing and Mickey did his best to not laugh at the guy as he talked. “Welp, I’m Mitchell, Mitchell Brown,” He leaned over, and shook Mickey’s hand firmly; Mickey returned its strength. The old man squinted back to the folder, trying to decipher something in small print. Mickey was still looking at the dog pictures. _There’s so goddamn many of them_. “Oh yeah, me and my wife got a thing for pups. Got six dogs at home. You got any pets yerself?” Mickey shook his head.

            “Nah, haven’t in—a while.” He remembered his back story and spit it out fast, “My dog, he croaked, few years back.”

            “Why, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Greer. Anyhow, let’s get on with this here thing.” He leaned into whisper with a happy smile, “I think you’ll do just fine, we’re short staffed, and you seem brought up well, let’s just get this through right uh’way.” _Brought up well?_ Mickey thought, _Good to know this whole disguise shit’s workin’._

            He kept his posture, maintained confidence, and contained most of his natural curses to his mind and not his mouth. The manners he maintained, along with the aqua button up and form fitting brown pants kept his professionalism at a level he couldn’t have mustered as a Milkovich. He felt good about himself after it was over, and rather hopeful about his would-be boss. Despite the annoying dog thing, and his funny way of speaking, he was a nice man. Saccharine sweet, he had too kind of a heart for Mickey to care about anything that was less than becoming of the man.

            “All right then, Nick, I’ll try to get back to ya in the next couple days don’t you worry. Have a good one naw!” He cut the air with a pointed, jolly finger and Mick chuckled.

            “You too, Mr. Brown.” He waved back at him, and started to walk out, shaking his car keys from his pocket, and pulling out his phone, he stalled, and his heart skipped a beat, when the girl with the curly hair and warm skin spoke as he passed her.

            “Hope you don’t think you’re fooling anyone.”

            His head whipped around in an alarmed jerk, and his mouth succumbed to a wild drought. “‘Scuse me?” _How the fuck should she know_? _I’ve never seen her in my goddamn life. What if she was friends with someone I knew_? _Fuck that, there’s no way, no fucking way._ Panic rose and fell in his chest and immediate regret shook him. _I shouldn’t have come, they know who I am. They found out already and I’ve barely been here a week._

            “Those glasses are clearly some cheap plastic from Wal-Mart.” Mickey sighed, his heart returning to its regular rate. _Oh. Oh fuck._ He burst a laugh of pure relief.

            “Oh, yeah, just, like how they look, you know?” She shook her head, and chuckled

            “You’re a dork…but a cute dork.” The girl she’d been whispering with came out of the bathroom, also wearing a Whole Foods apron, she was a petite Asian with perfect black hair and sparkling young eyes.

            “Raquel, I called dibs! Hey, I’m Brittany, I know I look young, but I just turned seventeen so I’m legal in the state of Illinois. You’re the guy that just interviewed today, right? Don’t worry, like a hundred percent of people that interview get the job, Mitchell’s so nice. So, if we’re gonna be working together, it’d be good to get to know each other don’t cha think?” Mickey was still parched, but not for the same reason as it had been before. Slack-jawed, he flicked his eyes back and forth across the store. Any other day he would’ve politely told her to fuck off. But he was Nick Greer now, and there’s no way that khaki wearing Coloradan, would’ve cussed back at them.

            “I’m—I gotta book it, see, I got some other, shit to do, so…yeah, I’m gonna go now.” He hadn’t felt that suffocated in a while. _Nice to have a job right away, but fuck if I know I can stand working with these privileged teenage assholes._ The black haired girl gave a small wink as he left.

 

The steps to his house were familiar and unfamiliar all at once. He hadn’t been there in a millennium, and now he stood, simple, in front of the brick and wooden mess, dressed as an entire different person. For some stupid reason he couldn’t think of, he felt little flutters in his stomach when he knocked on the door. And then Mandy was standing in front of him, short blond hair cut above her shoulders. He smiled, overwhelmed with the joy of seeing her, he hadn’t since she’d ran off with Kenyatta years ago, and looking at her mean, sweet face was a breath of fresh air.

            “Lil sis!” He said, sarcastically, and opened his arms for a hug. She didn’t return it. She clocked him in the face with her right fist. “Jesus Christ! The fuck, Mandy?” He bent to the side and held his jaw.

            “Asshole, you said you’d be here in a few months.”

            “‘Yes, and it’s been a few fuckin’ months! God, what is your _fucking_ problem?” His words came out terse as he rubbed out the pain of the blow, recovering gradually, and shaking back to stand up right.

            “Three months and a week,” she retorted. _Least nothin’s changed about her._ By the looks of it, and the pain of it, she was the same sister from Southside Chicago he’d grown up with. Just as beautiful, in her own, grungy way. Her haircut complimented her thin face, and Mickey looked into his own eyes, clear blue flashing at him with contempt.

            “Well fuckscuse me, I only drove half way ‘cross _two_ fucking countries.”

            “The letter didn’t get here until the day before your funeral, and I’ve been sitting around waiting in between states for your ass to be okay.” She shook her head at herself and crossed her arms, “Gotta stop jumping around,” then she was smiling, “the fuck did you do to your hair?”

            “Fuck off, you plan on leavin’ again?” He adjusted the frames of his glasses.

            “Yeah, I gotta place in New York now, I was here few months back, but I left after the funeral, just dropped by again a few weeks ago, wanted to see if you actually got here. Was starting to think it was someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

            “Well it’s not.” He pressed his lips together .

            “Who’s at the fuckin’ door?” Iggy’s voice was a lazy loud that swamped the house, and Mickey laughed at the noise of his little brother. He hadn’t been _graced_ by his presence in forever either.

            “Why don’t you get off your ass and see, shithead?” Iggy came out shirtless, and usually grubby. His lips quirked up, and they embraced in a small side hug, slapping one another on the back.

            “The hell’s with your hair?” Mickey ignored his remark, and his smell. Iggy’s smell, a concoction of body odor, axe body spray, and dirt. Mandy giggled at her violent brothers’ affection.

            “So what’s the plan?” She asked, biting her smile.

            “Lay low, try ta make things work out here. Just came from a job interview, lookin’ around for apartments today too.” Mandy smirked.

            “Model citizen Mickey.” He shrugged.

            “Model citizen _Nick Greer_ now. Can’t fuck this up, even if I gotta work at a goddamn grocery store for the resta my fuckin’ life.” He spoke casually, but his chest tightened at the words. _No goin’ back._

            “Yeah, but that’s gay as fuck,” Iggy spoke, repulsed at the notion. He blanched as soon as he caught the word he’d used.“Eh, I’m sorry, man.” Mickey blinked eyes that rolled harder than the current of a heaving river. The amount of fucks he could give could not be anything more than imaginary. _He sure hasn’t gotten any smarter._

            “Just ‘cause you never worked a job in your useless life don’t mean I can’t.” Iggy smacked his lips together.

            “Slangin’ dope is a job for some people, bro. The fuck you workin’ anyway?”

            “I told you, just tryna get a gig at some dumb store.”

            “I heard you, stupid, which one?” Iggy’s face furrowed, and Mickey shrugged.

            “The fuck I look like tellin’ you?”

            “Whatever man, speakin’ a slangin’ I gotta go rack up that crystal from up north right about now.”

            “Still ridin’ with Jesse?” Mickey knew the drug guys Iggy hung around, a while back, they’d been drug guys that _they’d_ hung around. But that part of his life was over now, despite how well he might’ve been at it. “ _No drug jobs, no gangbangs._ ” Enzo’s words echoed in his skull.

            “Nah, J ran off, after some DEA guy busted down his cookin’ spot. New guy, Walt, is sellin’ up north turf.” Mick tipped a nod his way. “I’ll see ya later, bro.” He disappeared back into the house with a usual slam. Mickey’s lip twitched, and he crawled from his reaction, trying to not let Mandy see his sensitivity.

            “‘I gotta see ma real estate agent here in a little while. Actually doin’ this shit like some boring middle class fuckhead, but Enzo said it’ll make me look tame.”

            “Enzo?” Her brows rose unevenly.

            “Brazilian dude, set me up with all this, taught me how to do it right so the cops don’t come bangin’ down any doors, puttin’ a forty-four to my head.” She nodded.

            “Last thing we need…you talk to Ian?” Mandy’s lips pulled at her eyes and Mickey shook his head, pulling a cigarette from a half empty pack. He lit it, and smoked as he talked.

            “Fuck no, the hell I’d go and do that?” Mandy tilted her head, her lids half mooned over her eyes. “What?”

            “We’re really gonna do this?” He stared back at her, and she took a deep, exhausted breath. “You gotta tell him Mick. I just went and saw him yesterday, and he’s not doin’ well, broke his arm somehow—you should’ve seen him at your ‘funeral’ he looked like he was barely fucking there. Never seen him so—traumatized.” Mickey’s face was tingling. _No he fuckin’ wasn’t._ He’d be messed up if Ian died too, but he wouldn’t be _traumatized,_ and he sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging onto that shit. There was no way he would. “You’re really not gonna go see him?”

            “Considerin' what happened the last time I saw the guy, not sure if either of us wanna see each other. I didn’t come the fuck back just for him.”

            “Dickhead, how can you say that? And don’t say you came back for any of us, ‘cause I know that’s not fucking true.”

            “I didn’t come back for _him._ ” He didn’t. He wanted to be home; people somehow didn’t seem to understand that. Mandy’s mouth hardened.

            “You’re a liar…go do what you gotta do. We can talk later. But, I really need to get back soon, I’ve already spent too much money on plane tickets.”

            “What’re you doin’ now to afford that shit, anyway?” No one in his family did anything _legal_. When Mandy was a teenager, Mickey was vaguely aware that she’d helped to push Lip into going to college. She’d even spoken of some of the things she’d wanted to do after high school, and she’d been the only one in his family to hold an actual job, aside from Mickey’s poor excuse of working security at the Kash and Grab with Ian. But all that goodwill she’d tried at had washed down the drain as soon as she’d gone off with Kenyatta.

            With a labored breath, she shrugged, “We’ll catch up later, go do whatever you have to do.” Mickey frowned and made his way down the stairs.

            “Well, meet me somewhere else, can’t keep comin’ back here, too risky. Try under the L at three, and you better not fuckin’ tell Ian shit, a’ight? He don’t need me in his life, anymore than I need him.”

            She breathed a small, “Yeah, okay,” and Mick started back down the sidewalk. “By the way—“ His eyes turned to meet hers once more, her alabaster skin was still rouged with  the excitement of his presence, and sentiment touched him for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He’d missed her more than he’d realized. _And she’s ‘bout to leave again._ “—You look stupid in those glasses.” Mickey grinned and threw a flock of birds her way playfully before she went back inside. She shut the door deliberately soft.

 

“Hello Mr. Greer, I’m Georgia, here’s my card.” The real estate lady shoved a glossy business card into his hand, and he blinked behind his glasses at the thing, sticking it somewhere in his wallet where he’d never reach for again. _Plan on find somethin’ cheap enough today, fuck if I’m stayin’ another week in a shitty motel._ “So, I have several complexes, I was wanting to show you, I understand your main concerns are financial.” He nodded.

            “Cheap and fast.” She smiled, laughing. Her skin had only some fine lines on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. Her hair was done in a neat bob, and the skirt suit she had on was fiery red, she wore it with hose underneath and shiny black heels. The white chompers she used to smile were creepy and plastic.

            “Well, I hope not to disappoint you, sir.”

            He followed her in his car to several locations before they stopped at one close enough to the Southside that made him feel comfortable, and far away enough that didn’t make him nervous. While the others had ranged from high and amply priced, (well, amply priced with Mickey’s budget) to near impoverished, he found this place was a healthy in between, a bit shabby, mostly brick with some white sidling. The door was dark wood and the windows were dingy, but looked like they’d let in a lot of light. They walked through the front and up white washed, wooden stairs.

            “There are several rooms, that are available, but this is one of the cheaper ones, and one of my favorites for this price range.” She opened the door, and he nodded, clean pine floors, plain white walls, air conditioning installed near the window. The tour she gave was brief and revealed one bedroom and one bath, the kitchen was small but glistened in the sun beams that flooded through the windows. The place was nice for cheap.

            “Yeah, it’s good, how much?”

            “Rent is around six hundred a month, you’ll probably need to put down around twelve to fifteen hundred. But I can get the landlord to help you get a better idea of that, would you like me to go fetch’er?” Mickey shrugged.

            “Yeah, guess so.”

            “She’s a wonderful lady, very kind, and _very_ pretty.” Her voice hinted at a match making tease, and his lips zipped into an ironic smile. _Wrong tree, lady._  She went back down the stairs, and Mickey leaned into the frame of the apartment door, gazing into the place, a place he might be calling home for a while. _Fuck this shit’s different._

            He’d faked his death as a fugitive, and it had actually worked. He’d done tons of shady shit to get there, and he’d probably never hear the sound of his real name again, but his life was looking okay right now. Not how it would’ve been if he’d stayed in prison, or on the run, or running drugs, guns, and whores. In any other scenario, there was no way he would be working an actual job or talking with a real estate agent about different apartments he might buy. All the sensations that filled him were foreign, but well met. _Probably won’t even have to ever use a gun again…still gonna keep one though._ Even though, his entire existence was illegal, his name and persona completely illegitimate, he felt that in some way, he was turning his life around. Everything Enzo had done for him, nearly choking in a fire, sleeping with a sex trafficker, among other things, was paying off. And he _didn’t_ plan on fucking it up. After all the guy had done for him, he knew it’d be devilish to turn the entire thing to waste.

            Two sets of feet coming up the stairs echoed through the building and he turned around to face both of them. The landlord’s hair fell in her face as she made her way up, supporting herself with the broom she carried in one hand. She stood in front of the real estate agent, one hand holding the broom, and the other outstretched for a handshake, glimmering teeth beamed at him, and she shook her hair away from where it’d been brushing her right cheek.

            “Hey, my name’s F-” she tried to say, but the words fumbled into muteness.

             The silence continued to gush from the looks they gave to each other, and her hand dropped to her side. Her spirit boiled with shock, and Mickey’s eyes grew dry beneath his glasses. She had the same thin, pale legs underneath professional khaki knee shorts and an un-tucked blue collar shirt that fit casually with sneakers. Her brown hair spilled over her shoulders in thick, voluminous waves, and she stared at him with eyes that were filled with dark, purplish venom. All the blood drained from Mickey’s face.

            _Can’t ever get rid of you fucking Gallaghers._


	17. MICKEY

            “Fi-o-nuh Gallagher, nice to meet you, sir.” She stuck out her hand, and Mickey played along, shaking it quietly before Georgia. _Maybe she just thinks…I look like Mickey—me, whatever._ It was plausible for the second they were merely staring into one another’s eyes, lightly shaking their hands together. But then she gave his fingers a hard choke in a grip firm enough to crack his bones. He bit back swears at the strength pulsing through her, squeezing the blood out of his hand. Her face was torn with rips of rage he’d never seen on anyone before. _Wouldn’t be surprised if she stabbed me to death right here._

            “Nick Greer,” he uttered in a nervous reply. Her nostrils flared and resentment rose in a prevalent flash at the try of his fake name.

            “You know what, I might like to give him a little tour myself, speak in private about prices you know?” _No. No, I don’t fuckin’ know._ “Think we could just go in on our own, Georgia?” The real estate agent bellowed a laugh, her bleached horse teeth sticking from her face as she clucked.

            “It’s your building!” Fiona nodded, smiling sweetly toward the woman. A flight or fight response was breaking Mickey’s mind, flight pressing on his back, urging him to run away. _Get out of here. Get the fuck out of here, now, Mickey. GET OUT NOW._

            “Nah, I should head somewhere else—” The look she shot at him was a warning, something that read, “ _Try something and I’ll rip your balls off._ ”

            “Oh, come on, thinkin’ about buying something, always good to get a good look,” she nudged him past the doorway, with firm fingers, and he stumbled closer to it. _Not the first time I’ve been cussed out by a Gallagher,_ he prepared himself as they started inside the blank living room, She held the small of his back, and trailed an artificial, “So this is room two-seventeen…” before she closed the door behind her. The hardness of the slam was personal, and suddenly their isolation was stuffing Mickey’s chest. They were the only ones in there, staring each other down and sizing each other up, lion to lion, face to face. Nowhere to hide. So, he feigned aggravation, drew a lip up between his teeth and dropped his hands.

            “What?” Mickey sighed. Fiona was smiling toward the ground, tapping the handle of the broom onto her palm, and laughing mordantly as she glared at the pine. His throat ached, and his vocal cords were tied together at the biting sarcasm inside her, a deep, malevolent grace that coursed through every visible fiber.

             “Okay,” she snapped, her head jerking up to look at him, “you better give me five good reasons as to why you aren’t _dead_ , before I beat the shit out of you with this broom.” Mickey huffed, his heart racing.

            “Fiona, look if this is about—Ian, he’ll get over it, everybody fuckin’ does—just give it some time. Things change, people die. We all go through shit like that.”

            “You aren’t givin’ any reasons, Mickey.” He opened his mouth, looking around the room. The words weren’t anywhere to be found.

            “I don’t know—”She tossed the broom in her hands and caught it, her face hardening, before she whacked him hard in his side. The pain of the metal rod stung stabs underneath his shirt, and he howled through the apartment, holding onto the growing welt. “Holy fuck!” He ducked the next blow, flying straight into what would’ve been his head. The hatred, and fury on her face was disturbing, even to Mickey.

            “Why aren’t you dead, Mickey? _WHY THE FUCK AREN’T YOU DEAD_?” She struck him with her broom again, and again, and a few more times after that, screaming like a savage warrior with every relentless blow. He managed to dodge most of the crashing beats, but the rest nabbed at his skin, and released bursts of pain and shrieking curses.

            “Fucking Christ! Look, look, hold up, alright?” He held his arms in front of him as she raised it, poised as though she was about to swing a baseball bat. He stalled her, outstretching his hands in front like he was staying a bull. She finally stilled, her puffing breath returning to a calm shallow, slight pant. Taken by her quietness, he gradually made his way to stand up right, relaxing. _Big mistake._ She hit him again. It  was harder than all the other times and sure to leave a bruise on the side of his leg. He nearly fell back from the clout. “Jesus, what is it with you women?” She raised it again, and he held up his hand. “Stop, stop, you want answers or not?” She growled.

            “Take those stupid fucking glasses off!” She yelled it through gritted teeth, and, flustered, he collapsed them onto the collar of his shirt.

            “Okay, they’re off, you done now?” She held the broom at her side again, like a staff, bristles on the floor, where they should’ve been. A small drop of security landed on him at its position, though he still felt a slight discomfort with her merely holding the thing. _Fuck that shit hurt._

            “Well, go on.”

            “Go on with what?” She pointed the tip of the rod at him, threateningly.

            “How the _hell_ are you alive?” An angry, almost demonic, chattering left her mouth and shrunk more blood from Mickey’s skin, paling him to a ghost like complexion, even with the little tan he’d obtained in Mexico, his skin was white with nerves.

            “What, you want me to tell you the whole story?”

            “You mean the story where everyone thinks you’re dead and my brother wrecks his life because of you? Yes, I’d like to hear that story.” _No one knows when to give shit a rest anymore, huh_?

            “There ain’t a whole lot to tell you.” Her hair shook when she tensed her face. “Jesus, the fuck do you want me to say, Gallagher? People think I’m dead, and I’m off the hook, and you better not fuck this up for me, if you know what’s good for you.” Her knuckles turned white with the tightness she used to grip the broom. “Got people who can fuck shit up for _you_ if you try somethin’ smart.” No he didn’t. But the threat would hopefully keep her at bay long enough for him to get out of there and never come back.

            “Gallaghers don’t snitch,” she snapped, “and they also don’t play dead without letting people who actually give a shit some sort of fucking warning.” She was whispering now, frantic, and just as angry, but low enough so that the agent outside wouldn’t hear.

            “Ian left me at the border, the fuck should I care to tell him jack?” Her face wrung into crinkles of disbelief.

            “What?”

            “He went with me. To Mexico. And left me. At the border.”

            “More reason for you to tell him, asshole.”

            “How the fuck does that work? He wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I don’t want nothin’ to do with him. Fuck, you act like I owe the guy something.” He rolled his tongue along his bottom teeth before he spoke again. “Everyone _mourns_ , when someone dies, a’ight? It’s normal, and he’ll get over it.”

            “ _Mourning_ , smartass, is one thing, snorting coke, getting plastered, and almost killing yourself is another.” Mickey’s face fell, and his heart pounced against his sternum. _Almost killing yourself_?

            “He try to kill himself?” She shook her head, and coursed fingers through her hair. Her face was flushed with both livid shock and other buckets of emotion she wouldn’t pour.

            “Not really, he got into some stupid gang member’s car at a party or something, I’m not sure—but he almost died. He was in the ICU for three weeks.” Mickey’s nerves were on fire. _Jesus Christ, Ian._

            With the words she spoke, the strength of a war raged within his mind, sides sparring over wanting to see Ian more than anything, and not wanting to ever even _think_ about the guy again. The prospect of it all was finally slamming against his chest, hitting him hard and at the front. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t hide from his feelings with anger and a varnish of carelessness. Ian was in driving distance. He could go see him now if he wanted to, make sure he was okay, tell him to stop doing whatever dumb shit he’d been doing, but by the sounds of it, he wasn’t sure how Ian would react to his abrupt resurrection either.

            “ That ain’t on me,” he settled. No matter what, he didn’t plan to make the mistake of telling her anything more than he needed to, not anything he felt, and not any doubt that ran through him. He’d known her well enough to know she didn’t give up easy, and he didn’t need to give her a reason to hope and hang onto him, waiting for him to run to her red haired brother with wide, open arms, swinging down with a heroic cape over his shoulders to rescue him from his own self destruction.

            “He wouldn’t be doing the shit he’s doing, if he knew you were alive. He blames himself for you being _dead_ , but here you fucking are: the selfish prick that couldn’t raise a red flag before you fucked up his life.” Mick’s jaw tensed. He was often finding himself speechless. _Ain’t exactly a conversation to bring cue cards to._ “Mickey, you have to tell him,” she shook her head, “you _have_ to.”

            “The fuck I do,” he muttered and swung past her, heading for the door. She grabbed his bicep, and stared deathly into his soul.

            “Hey, I don’t even think he should be around you—but you have to, Mickey.”

            “ _No_ , I don’t have to do _fuckall_.” Mickey yanked his arm from her grip, and she fumed, abruptly swishing into a fit of dry, sardonic laughter.

            “You know what,” she pointed a finger, “I get it—I get it. You’re _scared_. You’re scared, because you know that he would _hate_ you, if you told him you put him through all the shit you put him through, for nothing. He would talk to you for a minute, and then never again, and you know what, Milkovich, I wouldn’t _fucking_ blame him.” Mickey stormed away, bursting out of the door, all the while she screamed back at him, “You’re a fuckin’ pussy! Own your fucking shit, you little bitch! You ruined him! You fucking ruined him!”

            “Um…is everything all right, Mr. Greer?” The real estate agent tried to keep with his fast stomps down the stairs, her shiny kitten heels harming her pace. She was staring back up at Fiona, who was still screaming from the room like a mad woman. He put back on his glasses and grunted.

            “Everything’s fuckin’ peachy, now let’s try some place else. This one is a fuckhole, anyway.” The lady nodded, keeping face, and maintaining politeness. She drove with him to the next stop.

 

“You good?” Mandy was leaning against a column under the train, lighting a smoke, when Mickey rushed out of his car to meet her. He slashed his lips open with a cigarette and took her lighter, flicking up the flame until it burned tobacco that he inhaled deeply.

            “Do I look fuckin’ _good_ , Mandy?” His voice was muffled from the cigarette between his teeth, and he blew the smoke out hard.

            “Okay then,” she sighed, taking back her light, “why _aren’t_ you good, Mickey?”

            “Just saw Fiona, looking for a place to crash. How the hell she own an apartment complex, anyway?” Mandy was failing to stifle a wry smile that Mickey wanted to smack off her face, he couldn’t see whatever she thought was funny about the situation. Fiona might not rat on him, but she might tell Ian, and if that was going to happen, it would bring about the reign of a beast he wasn’t ready to deal with. _He probably wouldn’t believe her, though_ , he considered. It wasn’t exactly something someone heard every day, the dead, coming back to life.

            But the side fighting to see Ian was winning, and it took all other thought to convince himself not to do so. There was a contemptuous silence he felt he needed to keep between them. Parts of him were still upset about his abandonment at the border, not so much that he didn’t come with him, but that Ian had filled him with such excitement and so quickly distinguished it. Seeing him again only seemed like it might bring about more conflict, and everything Fiona had said was not entirely wrong. He was in too deep; he’d dragged it out too long. If he told Ian now, Ian would probably kill him, or want nothing to do with him, and the cowardice that rose from that thought seized him with angst that he could not shake, thrusting him with a blade of oppresive fear.

            At present, however, the fear was but a speck on his shoulder. His body was aflame with rage and worry, and he needed to let off some steam. He needed to vent, and he needed to shoot off into the distance and forget his problems, he needed beer, and cigarettes, and for once, he was praying for crowded noises and bashes of volume to break the silence. He needed a distraction, or else all that burned inside him would pull him by his ankle and drag him into some depressive, angry fit of hell.

            “She recognize you?” Mickey was rushed with a wave of annoyance.

            “ _Waaaayyy_ more than that. Christ, I just got my ass beat with a broom.” Mandy chuckled.

            “What for?”

            “Pissed I made Ian think I was dead, wanted me to see him.”

            “Then go see him.”

            “No.” Mandy’s face was pensive and she crossed her arms.

            “You’re _really_ gonna keep this up, aren’t you? Jesus, Mickey…I thought you’d be glad to see him…I can talk to him for you, if you don’t want to.” He rolled his eyes. “I, plan on seeing him again before I go back to New York, so you know, I could put in a word or two.” She smirked and crossed her arms.

            “Don’t go and do some’in stupid like that, alright? Doubt he’d buy that shit from anyone anyway.” Mandy raised her brows, challenging him.

            “He’d buy it from you.” He shook his head at the sky and blew a final stream of smoke, dropping the cigarette and stomping it into the ground.

            “We’d have a lotta shit to sort out.”

            “So you’re gonna go see him?” He didn’t answer, and instead of further pressing the matter, she rolled her cheek further into her mouth with anxious teeth, pondering something. She was about to drop something heavy, Mickey could tell, and whatever it was must’ve been touchy, or upsetting, because the build up that preceded the words was thick with discomfort and deep breaths. “I’m an escort.” Mickey twisted his head and puckered his brow.

            “Huh?”

            “You asked me what I do for money…I run an escort business, Mickey—call girl.” Mickey breathed, his organs sloshing around inside.

            “You’re a whore?” he cut to the chase, and she mugged him, a grimace splaying across her pretty features, before a tiny, apologetic smile softened it. Pimping whores was one thing, watching his sister do it was another. Thinking on some of the things he’d known men to request from the Russian prostitutes he’d kept atop the bar with Kevin made his stomach roll at the thought of his sister performing such vile acts on old, exploitive men.

            “Pays well,” she shrugged, and changed the subject back to him. “Mickey, stop being a coward, just go see him. You didn’t take the risk to coming back to Chicago just for anyone—the worst thing that might happen is he’d never talk to you again, and then you can run off to somewhere else.” He shook his head furiously. No one got the devastation that would come from Ian’s hatred. Having a sorrow sit with him, having him think he was dead, it was a gruesome alternative, but one he could handle. _Can’t have him hate me._ And maybe that was selfish, but it was hot with feeling and inner persuasion.

            “Whatever.” He shook his keys from where they were caught on the inside of his pocket and pinwheeled them around his finger. He’d heard enough for the day. Meeting Fiona, knowing his sister was a prostitute, Mr. Brown and his dogs. He needed to catch a break, even if just for a little while.

            “Where are you going?” she yelled as he paced to his car. He maintained the pattern of her volume as he stroked his feet through the white pebbles that made up the ground.

            “Buy a case a beer!”

 

A case of beer hurriedly turned into _cases_ of beer, and he’d drunken the rest of the day away. By nightfall, he was smashed.

 A rubber band was tugging pain through his head, and glasses could not even assist his weak, nebulous vision. His fingers felt weightless, like they’d been pumped with helium, and his gait was in ruin. His dumb drunkenness rattled his actions, and around midnight, he’d made the idiotic and hazed decision to drive to Ian’s house, swiveling around in the street until he reached the blue and white plaster. The steps were still stained and concave and just how he remembered. He dragged himself from the driver’s seat, stumbling backward for a moment. He did his best to balance himself on the ground and took another cool sip as he made his way down the sidewalk in front of the Gallagher house.

            His eyelids were nearly shut, and his feet crowded each other. The bottle of beer he held was smooth and slippery from sloshing booze over and out of the glass, and his trot down the street was uneven, the simple exertion pulling excess air in and out of his mouth in wheezing puffs. _Walking is hard,_ he’d found, doing his best to keep himself from tipping over.

            “ _You fuggin’ Gallaghers,_ ” he slurred. “ _You’re like, so , fuckin’ nosy, or some shit!_ ” He crashed a leg into the braided wire fence, and bounced off of the metal. It shook in loud wobbles and whacks. “ _Gaaaahhhddammit. You’re so damn, fuggin’—_ ” He belched. “ _You all fucking suck! Just go, joahst leave me the fuck alone—you fucking hear me! Leave me the FUCK alone._ ” He threw his bottle into the sidewalk and watched it shatter into a puddle of amber shards.

             One of the top windows of the house pulled open, squeaking as it slid up to investigate the crude crash. Lip peeked his head outside and into the dark, his brown hair and large eyes were blurry and purple, as though they were caught in a dark cloud.

            “Mickey?” he sounded, confused and filled with disbelief. Mickey’s eyes widened, and paranoia brought him upright, suddenly bustled and alerted, he bolted back to his car. Tripping over one of his tires, he recovered quick, and threw open the door, jumping inside. He sped off in drunken swerves down the road.

 

The next morning he reminded himself to never get that drunk again and settled on an apartment that was cheap, and cute, and very far from anything that breathed, “Gallagher.” He stood in the silence of the bare room, looking over it again. And while he waited for Georgia to fetch legal documents and previews of the lease, he thought of Enzo. He thought of the night on the porch with the perfect temperature and the brooding memories. The way they’d said, “Fuck Ian” in the night without any thought, so easy when he was in Mexico, now he wasn’t thus far from him, and the thought was weak, and with a double entendre.

            _Fuck. Ian._

            He took his breath away, and part of him just wished he could stop choking. A part of him felt he’d inhaled enough pertinence of the Gallagher family, and all it had done was asphyxiate him, and he should be done and finally take leave of their curse. But another part of him, for reasons that he did not know, found that there was something about begging for air that made him feel so alive.


	18. IAN

            It had been weeks since they held the service for Brad, which had been small, and sad, and sparse. For him, there had been no large family, no sad ex-boyfriend to give a eulogy, and no drunken father to ruin it. There were just a few friends and a Baptist preacher, and a man with red hair whose head was tipped toward fresh grass in shame and remorse.

            But, despite all guilt, all tired bashfulness, and all steel taps of hate he placed on himself, the sun was creeping out longer during the day and the time was met with summer’s official brightness and with it, Ian was brightening a little bit too.

            He was healing well. The scabs that had patterned his skin in previous weeks were near invisible, leaving only glossy peck marks to blemish him. Three days ago he’d been able to get his cast removed, and the feeling had been heavenly, like fresh water on his lips after walking through Arizona. He finally wasn’t feeling as weak as before, and he’d even managed to put on a few pounds. Things may have not been _so much_ better, but they certainly hadn’t gotten worse, all but save, well, the voices.

            There were still some days when the pain sunk too deep, and taking a little couplet of pills in the morning slipped into the dark. There were the mornings and afternoons where his mind was silent, and then there were the nights when he could hardly sleep because of their ramblings. On those days it took the hardest will to suppress the urge to stay under the covers for the rest of his life and give up on everything else. _Still hasn’t been long enough for them to kick in, I guess._

            The house was officially full. Debbie was visiting with Neil, Carl home from military school, Lip and Fiona were there, as per the norm; Liam was out for the summer too. And when Ian had finally come down the stairs after spending all the time until the early afternoon lying down, he immediately stood still, aching from his forgetfulness.

            “Dammit,” he blustered. Fiona’s eyes were startled when she looked to him, her phone held to her ear. “Forgot to take my medication.” He ran back up the stairs, steps so heavy it caused him quick fatigue and disturbing noise. He jolted to the bathroom and swallowed them in no more than a few seconds before he rushed back down. The pills were still dry in his throat, and he could almost feel it crumbling inside his chest with nerves. He was going to see Trevor today.

            He’d finally been able to get a hold of him, and the surprise that shocked him at the sound of his voice had immediately sent Ian pouring apologies, and nearly weeping with regret. He’d asked to see him in person, just have a conversation, go for a walk, something to sort his wrongs, and further express how sorry he was for hurting him. And at the talk of it, he could sense the reluctance in Trevor’s voice when he said that it was okay and it wouldn’t hurt to catch up a little.

            “Yeah…‘round seven fifty…yep…come over—ah probably sometime around two thirty tomorrow, take a look at the lease. Yeah, yeah, that sounds good…alright, mmmm-bye.” Fiona hung up, and shoved her phone in her back pocket. “Ian, you need to be taking it all the time—”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.” Carl descended the staircase behind him, coming from the bedroom. He was fully dressed, hair neat, and combed back. Ian was still getting used to seeing him so clean cut, straight postured and still. The irony of his little brother living what was once his dream tickled his insides. It wasn’t envy, just a roll of sadness, a reminder that he hadn’t gotten anything out of life he’d really wanted. _Started to like working as an EMT,_ he thought, _but I fucked that one up too._ “Where ya goin’?” Ian asked him.

            “They’re hosting this summer program, gonna go check it out.” _God they set him straight_. A year ago, Carl wouldn’t ever have done more school than what would pass him with the least amount of effort, and the lowest grade that was still passing.

            “Oh yeah? Where?”

            “Little up north a here, kinda far, toward that bank with the gold stuff all over it, not a lotta military academic material around this neighborhood.” Ian chuckled and took a sip of beer from the fridge. The taste of it was becoming a bit familiar, and a bit necessary, and he knew it was too much. But he figured it was not enough to ring any alarm bells, and finished it fast with a quiet burp, tossing the bottle in the garbage.

            “I’ll join you. Trevor lives well—in that direction and I’m goin’ to see him right about now, might as well come along.” Ian ran feeble fingers through his thick red hair, shaking as he lifted his right arm and sent uncomfortable cracklings into his shoulder. It’d been nice to finally be free of the sling and the cast, but there was some annoying damage that had remained, for how long it would stay, he didn’t know. And not knowing scared him a little.

             He hadn’t taken the doctor’s advice on physical therapy. Before he’d had everything removed he’d figured that it wouldn’t be bad enough for him to need it. And now, seeing that it might not be so useless happened to be around the same time his money was as scarce as it had ever been in two years.  He could barely pay his insurance, much less contribute a one hundred dollar per thirty minute therapy session. The frailty of things unnerved him.

            “Seein’ Trevor?” Fiona’s smile was a flipped parenthesis, curved and sharp.

            “Yeah, just hangin’ out, finally gotta hold of him to tell him sorry.”

            “Well,” she started back with a deep breath, “that’s good, for you to start seein’ some a your friends again, I mean…” She zipped away from the rest of whatever the sentence was, and raced to mundaneness, “I need some groceries! While you guys are out, could you get some stuff? These days I got enough money to actually make something interesting for dinner. Just pick up some more milk, pasta, I dunno, some ground beef maybe—I’ll just write a list.” She turned around, and scribbled it on a piece of paper with a pen she’d pulled from her pocket.

            “And some oreos!” Neil blurted, rolling slightly toward them in his wheelchair next to the table. Ian smiled, and Debbie chuckled a bit. Fiona handed them the list and her debit card, lingering her fingers onto it for a moment longer, staring at Ian as she held it, before she relaxed her hand and flipped away, cutting the air with her brown ponytail. She’d been acting strange for the last few weeks, and Ian didn’t like it.

            It was not the regular, annoying jabs and nags about things he needed to do (though those came just as well). But some air about her that was stiff, and strange, like she was holding something on her head, and if she moved too quickly it might fall. Lip shared the same posture, though his was less jittery and not as worried as it was irritated. Whatever was crawling up his elder siblings’ sleeves was coy and exasperating, and he wished it would go away.

            It’d gotten worse when Fiona asked him about the border in a moment they were alone. About a week or so ago, sweat nearly moistening her hairline from the stress of it, “Did you—when Mickey broke outta prison, did you two almost runaway to Mexico together?” Ian had been nibbling on a cracker as she asked it, still hugging his cast tight after removing the sling. He’d squinted his eyes at her, and knotted his mouth to the side as he chewed.

            “Lip tell you?”  She chuckled, and some sort of nauseous breath had flown through her teeth with a quirky smile.

            “Yeah…yeah, he told me.” She hugged herself and smiled, odd. “Wow.” That had been it, and she’d said nothing else.

            On the train he and Carl caught up. They hadn’t talked very much since he’d been back, and while Carl knew about what had happened to Mickey, he hadn’t mentioned it much, and that was fine with Ian. The more he thought about Mickey, the more likely it was to awaken the voices, and so he did his best to avoid all memory of him.

  * _Don’t want us to come out anymore_? _What are you a pussy_? _Afraid_? _We’re a part of you, goddammit_! _You hate yourself and we hate you too_!



_All right shut up_ , he beckoned them to go away, and they slowly dissolved from the forefront of his mind. While they’d been fluctuating it their frequency, they’d become more compliant when he asked something of them, and not as hateful as they once had been. More now, did they just spew some subconscious truth or feeling that Ian didn’t wish to express, in of course, a rude, and equally degrading manner. It still wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been in the graveyard, or in the hospital, or well, anywhere before he’d started back up on his meds.

            The doors of the train swung open at their stop and they both stepped out, walking in the direction of a sidewalk that was dribbled with cracks and black chewing gum that had fused into the pavement.

“Eh, I’ll text you when I’m done, and we can meet up and get all that shit for Fiona.” Carl’s voice was low and dismissive. Ian shook his head.

            “Nah, I’ll just get it on my own, don’t worry about it.”

            “You don’t want any help?”

            “No, dude, I don’t need help to get fuckin’ food, don’t worry about it.”

            “Okay, but…your arm shakes like you have Parkinson’s every time you try to carry something.” Carl’s words bit Ian’s lightly freckled skin, and his lip twitched a little. It wasn’t like he could argue. His arm was ridiculously fragile and his shoulder was always jointed with popping sounds and stiff looseness. His right hand trembled with fatigue every time he exerted some effort to hold something that weighed more than a beer or a coffee mug.

            “I can do it myself,” he mumbled, unconfident and sheepish around his brother’s eyes. “Plus, Trevor will be with me, I’ll just ask him to come along and help me if I need it.” Carl nodded.

            “Okay, I’ll text you, man.” Ian nodded back to him, and they split.

            He hadn’t been to his apartment since the day Mandy called to tell him Mickey was dead, and just seeing the building brought him back to that gruesome moment and twisted his emotions around in a whirl wind of discomfort. _And I took it out on Trevor._ He shouldn’t have said the things he had, and the prickly soft feeling that met his stomach was crushing into him as he knocked on his door.

            Trevor answered with a nervous smile, and Ian returned it with a similar slanted grin. “Hey,” he spoke. Strangeness shrugged between them. _Maybe we shouldn’t hang out, maybe I was too forceful, maybe…_ “Come here.” He brought Ian in for a friendly hug, and Ian accepted it, clapping him lightly on the back with the hand that was abler. The gesture relieved him some anxiety, and after their embrace, Trevor shoved his hands in his pockets, and they made their way out. “Uh, my boyfriend wants me to pick up some stuff, I was hoping we could go get it first and catch up on the way there, you don’t mind, do you?” There was a touch to the eagerness in the way he spat out the word “boyfriend.” Affirmatively assuring that things were done between them. For good this time. Ian hadn’t expected anything else, but, somehow it still hurt.

            “No, that’s fine, actually, Fiona asked me to grab some stuff for dinner, so it works out; gotta meet up with my brother once he’s done checking out this summer program or whatever after.” Trevor pulled smokes from a white and green pack that smelled of mint and tobacco. They puffed on them as they walked to the parking lot.

            “Okay. Cool. Which brother?”

            “Uh, Carl.”

            “He’s the one in military school, right?” Trevor asked as they filed into his car. Ian murmured a breathy “yep” as he put it in drive.  They’d been sorting through traffic for a while before he finally asked, “So, what’s been up with you?” Ian didn’t answer, at the flagging of Trevor’s tongue through the silence, his own words shot out of his mouth without the option of drawing them back in.

            “Trevor, I’m sorry, I mean, I’m really fucking sorry. I’ve done so much bad shit to you. I don’t fucking get how you were even willing to see my face again after all the shit I said.” Trevor sighed.

            “Look,” the tension radiated off of him as he spoke, “I know you’ve been going through a lot Ian, and, well, even through everything, I thought you were a good friend. Doesn’t mean I’m not still sorta fucking pissed about it, but hey, give things time, and if you keep trying to sort things out between us, who am I to tell you no?” Ian smiled pitifully, like he was a puppy staring at his new owner. “Now, will you please stop apologizing, Jesus, I get.” His laughs were sweet, and kind, and something Ian had missed.

            “Sorry—I mean, I’m sorry I—fuck, I didn’t, okay.” They were both chuckling. And Ian asked with little confidence, “So who’s the boyfriend?” Trevor smiled.

            “Guy I met in this weird restaurant my friends took me too. Eric, he’s uh, studying psychology, right now, crazy ass health nut, wanted me to get him some gluten free, vegan, whole grain snack bites, and that’s not it—gave me a whole list of this crazy PETA activist sorta shit to buy, but, he’s payin’ for it, so I ain’t gonna say anything.” Ian pursed his lips.

            “Damn.”

            “That’s what I said…It was annoying at first, but now, it’s kinda cute.” His lips parted for a moment before he spoke like he was considering if he was even going to let the words past his lips. “He’s actually part a the reason I agreed to see you again. Says it’d be a ‘healthy social exercise’ for us to remain friends. And I mean, it’s been a while, I’ve had time to cool down.” Ian nodded, he was cooling himself as well, more sure that, while he had said and done some inexcusable, plainly _vile_ things, there was a thin film of forgiveness growing between them.

            “Anything else been going on with you?”

            “Not much—well a lot, actually, but I’m not gonna whine about my problems to you.” Ian, licked his lip and nudged an elbow toward him.

            “Try me.”

            “Well,” he took a deep breath, “got robbed from one of my kids at work not too long ago, greedy, kleptomaniac fucker—that one does it ‘cause he can, not just ‘cause he’s poor or misled, or trying to prove something. Cut me short of five hundred dollars.” Ian ran a thumb against light red stubble nervously.

            “That sucks…but, to make you feel better, after Mickey died, I started up on some heavy coke and got his name tatted on my chest when I was drunk, lost my job.” Trevor recoiled, and then gave a challenging smile.

            “That’s not all, after you and me split, I kinda had a rebound thing. I was sleeping around, until I met Eric. But um, before that I had an AIDS scare, I had to go get checked for HIV, came back negative, but, damn, fucked me up.” Ian’s brows flew towards the sky, and then he smirked.

            “Well, at least it wasn’t your idea to get into a car with a gangster and a drug addict during a drag race, which ended up—crashing, and then, killing two other people.” Trevor blinked and gave a sad, shallow laugh. His brow was quaking.

            “You win,” he muttered. Ian grinned dryly. He talked about it with carelessness, but it hurt no less, and they both quickly faded into talking about other things.

             Missing people, the way everything had ended between them. They told jokes, and laughed more at their mistakes and tragedies. The entire visit was a bundle of sadness that they laughed at to ignore any possible rising pain.

            “There’s a Whole Foods around _this_ part a town?” Ian stared at perfect lettering atop the entrance as they pulled into a parking space. The sign gleamed above shiny, new glass doors.

            “Yah, really new, it’s, the only place Eric can get his shit, he used to drive all the way across town. And normally I wouldn’t judge where ever someone goes to buy food, but this place costs you like five dollars an egg.”

            “Seriously?” Ian wasn’t sure if he’d ever been to a place like this before. He grew up with the sorts of things food stamps could get you, eating generic brands of everything they bought, marked down to about half price, and half the taste.

            “No, but it’s too fucking expensive.” _Gentrification at its best._

             The place was clean and fresh. The air hinted lilac and ammonia, crawling with a small murmur of free, young spirits, and old, health freaks seeking to prevent early death with hefty social security checks and pounds of organic beef. They made their way through the store quickly, picking out Trevor’s boyfriend’s snacks, along with a trope of other unnecessarily high priced organic food stuffs. Everything was worth a lot more than Ian had intended to spend, but Fiona still had heaps of money from the mat, as well as the major bank she was rolling in from her tenants. _She’ll live,_ he thought _,_ and tossed another item into the cart. They checked out in a line with only a single person in front of them.

             The woman that rung them up was young and mixed race, with crunchy, moussed curls and strange green eyes. Ian was picking a pack of gum from a shelf near the checkout line, as she greeted them with routine “hellos,” and “how are you doing todays.” _Six dollars for a pack of cinnamon striped gum I’ve never heard of_? Ian scoffed and put it down, bothering to assess a few other snacks on the rack before he returned to the cashier.

             It was when he looked back up to pay that he saw him.

             His hair was a strange brown-blond with a subtle sheen in the light. He was wearing an un-tucked blue button up, the sleeves rolled, revealing white skin, painted with a small tan. His work apron covered his jeans and he wore fat framed glasses, black, with glass thick as cardboard. It was a shame how they shielded shimmering, somber blue eyes, like nuggets of sapphire.

 _Jesus Christ_ Ian gawked, _he looks_ just _like him._ He was checking out an old woman with white silver hair in the line across from them when their eyes met. He stalled for a moment at Ian’s blatant stare, and then began furiously scanning each and every item from her cart, keeping his head down in embarrassment. _No way,_ Ian thought, _God must be fucking laughing at me right now._

           “Hey.” It was Trevor’s voice that brought him out of it. “You okay?” Ian only nodded, his voice was hardly strong enough to speak. He picked up some of the bags, too distracted to notice the weight of the contents, a gallon of milk and two jars of tomato sauce. He hung it on his right arm, and it gave out in an immediate shudder. The bags were about to crash into the ground, and Trevor caught it before anything broke. Ian swore, cheeks blushed. His stare didn’t leave the man with sad blue eyes and thick glasses as they walked out.

             When he arrived home, he was still mute. Setting down the bags, Fiona began to unwrap them and looked to him as he stood behind the island for a moment, looking around, lost. Performing that same searching mess he’d done after Mickey’s funeral, the blood from his bleeding heart was all gone, and he found it, instead, to be a dry, hollow, and desolate hole. Seeing the man with blond hair in Whole Foods had only blew a gust of wind through the ghost town, taking any remaining life. The arid feeling inside him made him sore and batted away at his equilibrium.

            “You okay?” It was Debbie, and Ian flashed back at her place at the table.

            “Yeah, I’m good,” his whisper was creaky, calm, and followed by Carl bursting through the back door with a grimace twisted into his features.

            “Dude, what the hell? We were supposed to meet after I was done at the place.” Ian failed to acknowledge him.

            “I-I just saw a guy, and he looked like—and I mean, he looked _just_ like—he looked _just_ like Mickey.” Ian only became plump with tension at the sound of his own words. “I mean, fuck, he coulda been his goddamn—twin or  some shit.” _And there’s no goddamn way I saw him by coincidence._ Debbie’s face was skeptic, Carl’s was pensive and Liam blinked with wide, ignorant eyes at the table. Lip and Fiona however, immediately stopped the little conversation they were having in the kitchen and blanched. Fiona, frozen over the bag she was emptying, and Lip glancing at her from the spot he was leaning against the counter.

            “Ian, sometimes, when people die, you know, they see them in other people—” Debs tried, Ian shook his head with ferocity.

            “No, no, this guy he looked _exactly_ like him, okay, don’t look at me like I’m fucking crazy, alright? Jesus, if you guys saw him, you woulda been just as surprised.” Ian glanced back to Lip and Fiona again, unsettled by their silence. Words may have not left any part of them, but their glances said enough. He couldn’t recognize whatever they were communicating, but a conversation was taking place between their eyes.

            “I don’t think you’re making it up, Ian.” He couldn’t tell if Fiona was mocking him or somehow nervous, but he didn’t have any time to think on it before a knock rang. He stepped quietly through the house to prevent himself from locking up with shock again and answered the door. Mandy was smiling back at him. _Weird._

            “Hey, I just wanted to see you again, before I go back.” She stepped a little ways inside. She was wearing a form fitting purple frock and comfortable heels.

            “Leavin’ again?” He asked. Her head bobbed up and down.

            “Yeah.” She let a sad giggle loose, “Got to.”

            “Weird you came over now.” He couldn’t help but to say it and she scrunched back, confused and offended.

            “Why?”

            “I just…saw this guy in the store, looked just like Mickey.” Her mouth was agape and she recovered with a sideways grin.

            “Wow, yeah, that’s crazy. Ian, maybe you should go back and…I dunno, talk to him.” He laughed.

            “And what am I supposed to say? Oh, hey, you look like my dead ex-boyfriend, can I get your number?” Her smile was still there, but it was not as strong.

            “I don’t know; it’s stupid.” She shook her head, and averted all else that was coursing through her mind. “Fuck, I’ll miss you,” she declared before dramatically throwing her arms around his neck. She squeezed him tight to her chest. “I’ll visit again, sometime, I promise.” Ian held her.

            He missed her like hell. He missed her presence. He missed her hard, fucked up sweetness. He missed her Milkovich charm. He missed his best friend, and he wished she could just be there, be his neighbor again, remember Mickey with each other. But he hadn’t missed the fact that things were not the same, and when he thought he was finally starting to be okay with it, his entire being had been rattled by the cashier guy with blond hair, black glasses, and eyes just like the man he loved.

            “I’ll see you then, Mandy.” When he went back inside, and closed the door, the little anger from the epic synchronicity of things was running off of him like rain from a forest leaf. Lip and Fiona were still dancing around each other in the kitchen when he walked back over there, and Ian rolled his eyes.

            “If you’re thinking what I think you are, no, I don’t need to get thrown in the loony bin again, just ‘cause I saw a guy, okay?” He sat down on a stool at the island after rushing cold water in a cup. He took small sips that helped to cool the heat of his mind, and Fiona shook her head slowly.

            “No, no that’s not what I was thinking,” she whispered. “Hey, what store did you go to—might wanna get this brand a spaghetti again, never heard of it.” Ian chuckled.

            “That’s ‘cause it’s from fucking Whole Foods, just opened one up around here, brand new, gentrification, emma right?”

            “Oh yeah, says so on the bag, didn’t even notice, well, those upper middle class pricks keep bringing it in. Do you remember where it was?” Ian scoffed.

            “Not really, maybe if I thought hard enough, why do you care?”

            “I just want the address, to get the spaghetti,” she stressed. Her hands waved with vigor when she used them to talk. Ian pursed his lips, confused. _Why the hell is she so fucking up about this_?

            “Why?”

            “Because.”

            “Because why? You’re being fuckin’ weird.”

            “I just want that fucking pasta, Ian!” She nearly screamed it, and any side conversations rumbling around the room ceased.

            “She’s acting psycho,” Neil said in the same innocent, monotone voice he always used to speak.

            “I just.” She closed her eyes. “Would like. To know. Where it is.” Ian shrugged.

            “Well I don’t,” he sighed, and tried at something, “fuck, um, I know it’s not far from where Trevor lives, pretty sure there was like some make up store around it, we were only there for a minute.” Fiona nodded, looking at Lip as she did so.

            “All right, just give me his address, I’m sure we can find it on our own, I mean, I’m sure I can find it on my own, I’m the one that needs pasta…that wanted it.”

            “Okay, I’ll get you the damn address, fuck, you’re acting like such a—”

            “Bitch!” Neil yelled out.

            “I was going more for something like spaz—Anyways, here.” Ian scratched the address on a worthless old envelope and handed it to her, her head bouncing vigorously at the sight of it. Even with all weirdness, all dismissive comments and strange reactions, he still couldn’t get the guy out of his head. And no matter what anyone said, there was no denying his entitlement to be awestruck. _He looked exactly like him._

  * _He did! He did! Fuck, he did!_



             Ian was alarmed at the voices reaction. They were actually _crying_ , crying in _concurrence._ _Didn’t ever think they’d actually agree with me on anything._ But their misery was heartbreaking, melted and distorted and so utterly woeful, a slow thaw of sanity dripping away any arrogance. He could now, for the first time, actually make the connection of them being a part of him. Everything they cried, he was feeling. The only real difference was that he was trying to suppress those reactions, and they were flaunting it freely.

            And knowing their putrid nature, it was not long before their bawling got out of hand. It was not long, before their sobbing turned to tearful screeches. Shrill enough to break glass, an awful sound, like a violin out of tune.

            It rung louder and louder, like the laughter from his coma dream, but instead of the mocking happiness they found from his pain, it was just crying, loud, toddler shrieks, so noisy that it blocked any other sound from pounding into the fits of his screams. And they weren’t mocking either, they were real, and raw, and overflowing with emotion and devastation. But no matter how genuine, they were painful, and coming from the outside, not bouncing around in his mind like before. It was not something he could withstand, and it was not something he could manage.

            He covered his ears and stammered, caring not who was around, he held onto the side of the wall with one hand and flinched it back, pressing it onto his ears even though it essentially did nothing. The tightness of his fingers may have muffled real sounds, but real these weren’t, and when he shoved his fingers in his lobes, it did nothing but comfort him.

            “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.” He made his way out of the house, fumbling around like a drunk. He didn’t announce where he was going, hell, _he_ didn’t know where he was going, and if anyone was asking, he could not hear them.“ _GOING OUT YOU GUYS, FOR A WALK—BE BACK SOON!_ ”

            He could not tell that he was screaming just as loud as the clatter inside his mind.


	19. MICKEY

             The fact that Ian had entered the store Mickey worked at with his boyfriend was not what hardened Mickey to stone. What really was pecking him was the way Ian looked to him in pain, confusion, and shock. _He didn’t know it was me._ He wasn’t being screamed at or beaten to death, so he was rather certain that he didn’t know it was him. And Mickey didn’t know how to feel about that. A twist of hurt stabbed him, discovering his easy, profuse visage, cool and foreign. He looked so different that not even his best lover could tell who he was.

            But he also couldn’t help to relent the bit of relief buzzing through his head. He feared if he had realized it was him in that moment, he would’ve choked him with the black apron and bashed Mickey’s nose until it poured blood, and his cover would have been completely blown. And for that lack of drama, he was grateful. Even though his presence had hurt, and each other’s energy floating through the same room had filled Mickey’s skin with scorpions that stung him from the inside.          

           Maybe it _was_ a little bit that had to do with his boyfriend, all of it tangled together. It wasn’t like they’d been feeling up on each other in the store, but Mickey had beat the shit out of the dude that had told him Ian hadn’t left alone that night at the club for the simple fact that he was the one to open his mouth. And the pings of envy that fell in his chest at the docks when Ian had merely uttered the word “boyfriend,” had made him plainly irate. Of course, whoever the hell his boyfriend was when they went to Mexico must have not been so good if Ian had left him so easily.

            But, being witness to it. Facing it. Looking into the eyes of another guy that Ian had held as he’d held him, fucked as they’d fucked, and kissed just as wet and warm as they had…it creeped him out, past anger and deep into the feeling of sad jealousy. And what it all meant, what seeing him with another man, so fast, soon meant…Ian had moved on so quickly. After his alleged “death” he was already feeding into someone else. _They could’ve just been together the entire time, before…_ Mickey considered.  No matter what, it only spoke on what he should’ve known long ago: Ian was moving on, and he had moved on too much for him to be wrecked by something like Mickey Milkovich’s death. Not that he’d wanted him to be, but it showed that whatever they’d had must’ve been a sweet, sad thing of the past if he was able to flee so quickly from it.

           There was a time where Mickey would’ve easily believed that Ian loved him so much as to be just as heartbroken as everyone made it out to be. But seeing _that_ , seeing him with some soft, cute guy, helping him pick up falling grocery bags said otherwise. _And people try to tell me he’s still fucked up over me,_ Mickey thought, _the hell with that_ , and did what he could not to care.

           After all, he didn’t have the right to be angry. He might’ve had a reason when he’d nearly killed the stripper in the Fairy Tail. When Ian was his. But he was his no longer. And that, he’d done to himself.   

           Mickey was checking out his last customer before closing the line when Brittany came to bother him. The doors whooshed open and he whizzed around at the noise, watching a Muslim woman with a floral hijab that covered part of her face and a man in a dark hood glide into the store. He returned his attention to a bearded man wearing a cat sweater and a polka dot bow tie, smiling apologetically at the distraction. Mickey handed him his change, the man left, and given he and Brittany’s immediate exclusivity, she began to run her mouth, the high pitched teenage squeal nearly deafening him.

           “Look, I get it if you don’t wanna go out with me, but—can you at least tell me why?” Mickey sighed, pulling a key out to lock the register. He’d been working there for three weeks now, and she hadn’t let up on trying to ask him out. Hell if he knew why. She was pretty, with her silky black hair and creamy skin. There was no reason for her to be preying on a single guy for as long as she’d been. And today was not the day for him to be the victim of her strong begs and itching loins.

           “Do you think I’m too young?” She was prying and he ignored her. “Too short? Too skinny—people tell me I’m really bony, I’d get it if you thought that.” He ignored her. “Why don’t you like me?” He ignored her. “Is it my personality?” He ignored her. “Am I not your type?”  He quirked his head to the side at that, and she took immediate note of the gesture and hopped onto it. “What? What part?” She followed him to the room, graced with the _EMPLOYEES ONLY_ sign on the door that almost hit her in the face as she followed him. Their commotion yanked Raquel’s head around as she packed her stuff into a small black purse, about to leave as well. “Is my hair not long enough? Do you like blonds or are you just not into Asian girls?”         

           “Fuck! No!” He finally shouted her way. His face grew with color. “I’m not into fucking _girls_ , ai’ght! Do you fucking hear me! I ain’t into blond girls, I ain’t into Asian girls, I ain’t into fuck all! Unless you got a cock in those skinny jeans, leave me the fuck alone, kid! Jesus _fucking_ Christ!”

           Then there was silence, and then Brittany’s cheeks plumped, and poured pink heat as she dashed out, hands covering her eyes, blubbering in a fit of dramatic tears.

           “Brutal,” Raquel remarked. He let an audible breath rush through his nose, shrugging, only half sorry. “Brittany’s family is rich, she's spoiled, used to getting everything she wants, including guys, I guess.”

           Mickey liked Raquel more than anyone else he worked with. Her attitude reminded him of his sister and he actually kept her words, allowing their meaning instead of seeing through the hollow of them as he did with everyone else in the store 

          “Yeah, well, not a good day for me to deal with her expensive bullshit daddy issues.” He was grumbling like a sour old man as he gathered his things.

          “Wanna talk about it?”

          “Fuuuck no.” Raquel shrugged, and threw her bag over her shoulder.          

          “See ya tomorrow, Nick.” Mickey nodded to her carelessly, distracted with his own thoughts. Maybe he should’ve felt bad for taking all his frustration out on a teenage girl, but now he couldn’t find a thread of guilt. He bundled his wallet, his phone, and his keys, before he folded his work apron into a floppy rectangle and set it aside.

           As he was walking out from the room, flicking his eyes mindlessly to the few aisles that were still left open, Mitchell hollered his name, or rather his “name” and Mickey turned to look at him. “Yeah?” The old man fanned a chubby hand, beckoning Mickey over. Mick grunted under his breath and started his way.

          “I don’t wanna keep ya long, but I’d really like to talk to you about Brittany.” Discomfort and exasperation weaved through Mickey’s muscles. _Fuck if I already messed up this job. Guess I really shouldn’t have cussed her out. She’s just a kid, he’s gonna think I’mma asshole._

          “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Mickey was preparing to ramble girly apologies and artificial regret, begging for forgiveness. He couldn’t lose his job this early. But all the kisses he would’ve planted onto Mitchell’s ass disappeared when the old man tossed a light chuckle through the air and shook his head with some sort of…pity. 

           “Son, if anyone should be sorry, it’s little miss Brittany.” Mickey blinked and felt his forehead wrinkle at the strange lip he gave.

           “Huh?”

           “I been watchin’ around and I could not help but notice her _advances_ she tries usin’ on ya. Now, I know, sexual harassment is a sensitive subject, especially when it comes that the man is the one bein’ put on the spot. But lemme tell ya, sexual harassment does not see gender, and if ever you feel uncomfortable in that situation, do not be afraid to defend yourself. Just come ta me, and I will have a stern talkin’ to her about fraternizin’ in the work place.”

           Mickey’s eyes flicked back and forth, and he pushed up his glasses, considering all that he’d just said. It was times like this that he wished he could flaunt that he was an ex-con, prison escapee, born Southside, that had ran to Mexico to fake his death. _Jesus Christ, dude, spend a year in prison and then tell me about “sexual harassment.”_

           “Yeah, thanks, but I think I’m good.” He spoke with a hard, confused, and aggravated contortion. Luck that it was one of the rare times he _needed_ to be alone, and everyone was choosing to bombard him with their banter.

           Mitchell nodded, and the flesh at his neck shivered. The same old smile lit his face. “Alright, just checkin’ in, see you tomorrah!”

           Mickey shook his head as he walked out the door, and the cool dusk sent hairs to stand on his pores. The weighted feeling of shadows looming over him crept his spine. His senses were shocked with hyper sensitivity, careful to the things lurking in the darkness of Chicago. Noting every tick of wind, every chip of pavement, and every customer leaving the same time he did, one wearing a floral head scarf.

           The drive home was cool and calm, the violet sky and peachy sun peaking through pink clouds. The feeling of the leather steering wheel underneath his fingers grounded him and kept him from falling somewhere deep within his mind he didn’t want to go. Focusing on the tangibility relieved a bit of the imaginary things rolling through him. The air was different. Not a normal Chicago caution. He almost felt as though there was something creeping over his shoulder, watching him, and whether it was paranoia, on guard heartbreak, or Enzo’s quick diagnosis of PTSD, something was swimming in him, and it was cold and dark. And he was fairly sure he’d seen the same car behind him for the entire extent of his drive.

           He put his glasses inside the console before he turned off the car. The only time he ever wore them was when he left to work, or somewhere important, and he rubbed the red bridge of his nose as he locked the Mercedes, stepping out and swinging open a metal door. He climbed the stairs to his apartment.

           Having money to spend was something incredible. He’d had enough to furnish the place, even though it was still succumb to a quaint cheapness. The tiny living room was decaled with a black suede sofa, facing a medium sized flat screen that he’d slumped onto the wooden coffee table. His bedroom was a small box, styled with a black dresser and a black headboard above a small, wide mattress. A tiny, glittering wooden square of a breakfast table sat close to the kitchen with four fifty dollar white seats. It may have been a bit lazily put together, but at least he had a place to sit when he ate, and sleep above the floor.

           But what most had settled him, outside of the organized living space, was the security of finally buying a gun, well _guns_. The price had ate up almost half of his portion of the hotel money, but he considered it a worthy investment. A Glock seventeen and a pretty stainless steel Beretta, one he kept in his car, and the other he kept in his night stand.

           Everything was so new. Not just the building, but everything. The Ian situation, the job at Whole Foods, the silence. In the Milkovich house there was never silence. Someone was either getting screamed at, or shooting inside, blaring music and the TV was always shouting from the living room. Silence was a luxury to him, and here he had too much.

           At times it was nice, and others it was annoying and he turned on the TV just for a bit of a murmur to lay in the back ground. He had it on now, the flat screen buzzing some shitty show filled with zombies, dirty beards, and a man always tossing around some stupid baseball bat. Mickey touched the white textured fridge, opening it to finger out a beer before he sat down, relaxed, and tried to fuse into the smooth couch as he sipped tart, heavy beer. And just as he was getting comfortable, the knuckles of a knock shadowed through the apartment.

           Groaning, he hadn’t planned on opening it, but the banging of a fist persisted and he rose. Looking through the peep hole, he was stunned to see the people he’d seen in the store, the man with the hood, and the Muslim woman with the hijab, worn so that it drew over her nose and mouth. Skeptical, he paced to his room, slammed open the drawer next to his bed, and shoved the Beretta at the back of his pants, hesitating to answer the door.                           

           He’d had the feeling he was being watched the entire time, and given his false identity, his situation of operation, and the paper thin ice he was living on, he couldn’t afford to take any chances. Something about the energy of the night was simply not sheering over with something trustworthy, and he was pained at the ridiculous accuracy of the feeling of shivering spider legs creeping at the back of his neck, following him all the way to his apartment. A brush of cool licked his back as he cracked it open, feeling for the metal handle of the gun with his other hand, prepared to whip it out if need be as he opened the door slowly.

          “The fuck are you?” He spat. His face fell out of hardness and then knotted with annoyance when Fiona twirled off her head scarf and Lip pulled back his hood. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

          “You gotta go see him.” Fiona begged.

          “You guys seriously followed me from work?”

          “Ian saw you today, and came home talking about it. He told us where you were, but he didn’t know it was you.”

          “Yeah, I know, I saw him too, with his boyfriend.” Mickey chuckled sarcastically, brushing off the discomfort behind the word. “He almost fell tryin’ to pick up a fuckin’ grocery bag.”

           “Yah, ‘cause that accident he got in, y’know after he hit rock bottom when he thought you died. Damaged his fuckin’ arm,” Lip quipped.

           “And he’s not his boyfriend either, have you know.” Fiona pressed, they were manipulating him, gripping whatever they could to persuade him, get him to go. _God, these people don’t know when to give up._

           “Yep, he sorta cussed him out when you died, dumped him,” Lip said.

           “Fuck is that my problem,” Mickey maintained. Lip was not as patient as Fiona though, and he stepped an inch closer to Mickey to speak.

           “Look, uh, I don’t get the fuck your problem is right now Mickey, but you sorta fucking wrecked my brother for no goddamn reason, so, if you’re not fuckin’ dumb, you should just go fucking see him. This whole thing is just you being a selfish sack a shit, and I would kick the shit outta you right here if I didn’t want you to go get Ian in check.” Lip breathed steaming dragon puffs, and his face warmed to blazing red.

           “ _Fuck_ you.” It was all Mickey could think to say, and then he gnawed on the inside of his lip, consideration wrapping around him. Reluctance of Ian’s reaction still held him back, the burning threat of having Ian despise him, of having him “talk to him for a minute, and then never again,” spiked a part of his mind. “Jesus, I can’t just see him, it’ll be all fucking—and I can’t…” Their faces were both steel, and strong, and angry, not buying any pathetic excuse he was about to try. “The fuck you want me to say?”

           “Something, fuck, Mickey, just go and say _something_.” Fiona’s dark hair shook with fervor and Mickey’s mouth was tight and terse, his eyes forlorn. _Fuck if I know I can do that now_ — 

          Any further thought was cut off by the loud ring of Fiona’s phone, splitting the air in a burst of music. She pulled it from her pocket and answered it. Rubbing the slight moistness of her brow that had come from all the stress. She swallowed audibly before speaking into her phone.

         “Hey, Kev…A gun? …Where did he get it? …The fuck—did you say anything to him? …no, I mean why didn’t you ask him why the fuck he had it?” Mick’s organs were mashed around. He could not tell for _what_ reason, but he had the _outlandishly_ _strange_ feeling that they were talking about Ian, and a settle of romantic panicky thuds pulled his heart. “Did he at least say where he was going with it?” She moaned with worry. “That’s all you know? Okay, okay, bye.” Fiona’s face flushed and her eyes were wet. “God, God.” She kept her breath as stable as she could and continued, “So Ian has a gun, don’t know where he got it from, but Kevin said he was walkin’ around with it, and fuck, I wouldn’t really give a shit any other day, but with how he left the house earlier, I’m scared he might—do something. He’s depressed you know?” She shrugged at both of them. Mickey’s heart was now racing, beating so hard against his chest it hurt.

         “No, no, he wouldn’t go and do some shit like that,” Mickey said.

         “And what makes _you_ so sure about that? You haven’t _actually_ seen him more than a few minutes in Whole Foods, you don’t know jack-shit about what he would and _wouldn’t_ do right now."

         Mickey bit his lip again, holding it hard in teeth before he said anything else. “Did he at least tell you were he was goin'?”

         “No, not really, Kev said that all he told him was something about,” she waved a stressed hand about, “‘bleachers’ and then he walked off.” Mickey’s head lolled around, his body relaxed, and his heart sunk. He rushed back to the kitchen counter, and threw the gun onto it, pulling the keys to his car into his frantic palm. He pushed past them and slammed the door shut, locking it in record time.

         “I know where the fuck he is,” Mickey said and clomped his boots down the stairs. Fiona and Lip were still standing by his door as he made his way down the steps, uncertain. He turned to look at them in an exasperating hindrance.

         “You do?” They spoke in unison.

         “Yeah—you guys comin’ or what? Let’s go!”

          They rushed down with him, pounding the doors shut to their cars. Fiona and Lip followed Mickey, and Mickey drove well over the speed limit to their old high school. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._ The skin was pulled taught against his knuckles as he drove, so hard that any more stretching might’ve broke the skin. _Don’t do anything stupid, shithead._

           When Mickey yanked the car into park at the baseball field, his quick beating heart had yet to cease, and he winced when he heard a gunshot ring. _No, no, no, no, no._ He jolted out of the car, not even bothering to turn it off. He raced toward the field.

           “Wait here!” He shouted back at them as he ran. _Please._ No matter how fast he got out, if it was done, it was done. If that last whiz of a bullet that rung through the air was Ian’s, it didn’t matter how quick he got there. It was all over.

           But then there rung the sound of another one, and another one, and the arrhythmic tone of Mick’s heart failed to regulate. He paced through the rows underneath the bleachers until he found him, shooting at the air. The bullets cut the dusk, and at the shock of the fourth recoil, Ian’s hand quivered back and he fell into it, dropping the firearm into the dirt. He collided into one of the blue beams, and held his arm.

           There he was. Not an aisle away, not startled and shocked at the man that looked just like Mickey Milkovich. He was just Ian. Hurting, and pained, and tired of the rebound, but he was Ian no less, pure and raw. His red hair flipping over his bleached face, whiter than Mickey had ever seen him. And thin, God, so thin. He hadn’t thought Ian could get any thinner, he was already so skinny, but there he was, waifish and sad, green eyes made blue. The little black jacket he had on was slipping off his shoulder to show a thin sleeveless thing above battered jeans, and rusty shoes. Mickey ate it all, and the taste was indulgent and stuffed him past voluptuousness. Even with all his sickliness, he was just as gorgeous, and Mickey missed being so close to that beautiful, ceramic skin.

            His eyes, his trembling hand, his pure face, and his exposed shoulder, melted all the fear, the apprehension, the anger within Mickey, and only left his purpose and the love he’d tried to set aside. With all of them afraid he might shoot himself, everything that had locked inside him at the sound of that first gunshot…He’d known it before, but had refused to admit that this was why he came, that this was why. This was why he needed to be in Chicago, and it was not the first time he was the last person to admit something to himself. Seeing his red hair, red rimmed eyes, and thin limbs, he couldn’t be angry, spiteful, he couldn’t even be jealous anymore, and most of all, he could not deny anything any longer.

           Ian went to pick up the gun again, his hand shaking from the weight of it; he had to use both of them. He was so weak. _Say something fuckhead, fucking say something_ , Mickey griped to himself _._ But the words did not come.

           What the hell was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to just scream at him to put the gun down? Rip it from his hands? Or should he have ran into his arms like he was wife to a soldier home from war? He did not know what to do, but all of those options were ripped from the picture. His throat was dry, his body numb, and the whispers of wind brushed his ears and pulled at the light of his hair. Knowing only from the reference of most people that spoke English, taking a sip from the start of all things, he only said what anyone else would when they greeted someone. A salutation of normal, casual, and friendly gesture, the beginning of a thousand other conversations, and the beginning of this violent one as well. Mickey’s voice nearly shattered as the word left him.

           “Hey.”


	20. IAN

            Ian’s head jerked from the ground, fingers gliding over the rough metal of the gun, and then locking around it, blood pounding in his hands. He held onto the weapon as though he could choke out the fear that broke him through the metal, as though the black of it could crack and fall onto the ground.

            He almost failed to notice that the screaming he’d come to mute with the pops of gunfire had finally ceased, the voices cut off into silence. They were just as shocked as he was. _Fuck, I really should be taking my medication all the time,_ Ian thought, looking to what seemed to be Mickey, dressed like the man from the store, or maybe it was the man from the store imitating Mickey, a twin conundrum, a tragedy of errors. He could not tell. The man’s entire existence was an enigma and a sore on his pain riddled brain.

            “Y’know, here’s not the best place to shoot. One ‘em bullets might ricochet off the beams and hit you in the fuckin’ face.” His smart comment came with a smart smirk that pricked Ian with shivers. _F-u-ck this._ He’d be damned if he’d sit and let his mind play more tricks on him than what was emotionally manageable. He threw the gun into his pants and bolted. “Ian!” The apparition called back. “Ian—fuck!”

            Ian didn’t look behind him, he could hear him running toward him, loud and thick footed, heavy and too noisy for that of a ghost. Too broken and too real for a figment, too tangible for a phantom within his mind. All other hallucinations had been peeking stars, and here ran the moon toward him. His steps wouldn’t cease, no matter how far he ran, no matter how hard he tried to erase the thing from his mind, the steps were growing closer, and he couldn’t get away. And, he knew from experience that he couldn’t run from something inside his own mind.

  * _Then why are you running_?



            Ian stilled at that, his heels practically screeching through the dirt. His breath was heavy and he pushed the back of his head with raised, arms folded into wings as he stabilized. What could he do? He could go home, and hide under the covers, lock himself in a dark room where he couldn’t see even his hand through the blackness. But what if the ghost followed him there? What if this creature within him bothered him all the way to the brown and stained steps of his house, flashing through the dark, a creation of a tainted brain?

             It was the first time he’d ever experienced a visual hallucination, and while he’d acquainted himself with the voices, this monster was swirling through him, and he doubted that he could so easily get used to it. These phantoms weren’t dancing, they weren’t stabbing him either, they were soaking into him, and his body felt too full. He pulled the gun from his person, and cocked it, pressing the side of it to his chest, some sort of warm, secure feeling in the hand that held him and presented the lethal option if need be. If the phantoms didn’t return back to whatever hell they’d come from.

            “D-don’t, I’m tired of this shit, please go away. Please. I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore. Fucking voices, fucking _ghosts_ now too. There’s not—I have limits, don’t, _FUCK_! Why the _FUCK_ does this have to happen me? Jesus, please!” His screams were the only loud thing, and they shook the metal of the bleachers and startled the spirit.

           “Ian, look, it’s okay, all right? Now, give me the gun.” Mickey’s ghost held out his hand, folding it back and forth for Ian to hand it to him. Ian laughed.

           “So, what? What can you do, why do you want a fucking gun, huh?”

           “Give me the goddamn glock, Ian!”

            Ian laughed again. It couldn’t be real. There was nothing that could have been real about it. His mind was so fucked up he could hardly tell what _was_ real sometimes.

            But…it didn’t sound like the voices. And while he’d never had a hallucination that was something visible, he hadn’t imagined it’d be so perfect, so identical, so _real_. His hair, a lustrous pile of caramel, his perfect skin pulled along round cheeks, a familiar thin nose, and pouty lips. His breath was uneven, and the way he moved, as though he had a heart, as though blood was really swimming through his veins. And his eyes. They were not soulless, or imaginary. They were _real_. Goddammit, they looked so _real._ The thought hurt, but came no less, _Maybe I’m not seeing things_ , the whim pierced him and reverberated with a fierce: _No, that’s stupid Ian, you carried him to his grave, remember_?

  * _Closed casket, idiot, consider. Fucker. Don’t. You aren’t sure._



            “Is this real?” He asked himself, the question was internal, and he couldn’t expect a change in answer, hallucination or no.

            “Yes. I’m right here, now just hand over the gun. We can head back to my place, sort sommuh this shit out,” Mickey’s phantom sighed, “Ya look like hell.” Or was it a phantom? A hallucination of his might’ve not been so nice. No. No, his hallucinations were gruesome and malevolent. They would’ve said he looked like a worthless piece of shit. They would’ve encouraged him to put the gun to his head. And if they’d made Mickey out to be the one to say it, fuck, he didn’t know what he’d do.

            But this man was not malevolent. This man was not cruel. He glowed and his eyes were crystal. He radiated loss of love and stained hope. He was Mickey. Not any evil, not any mind animated specter. It was him. Fuck if Ian knew how, but he was breathing. He was real.

             _It’s…him._ The emotion that quelled him. The electricity. His entire body transferred into nothing. He didn’t exist. Nothing existed. Nothing was real. In a moment, flashing into the fact of Mickey’s reality, the only thing that seemed _real_ was him. _Mickey_. Standing. In front of him. Warm. Real. Blood flowing through him. Heart pouncing. Hair brushing his brow. _Mickey._

             Ian walked closer in small, shy steps. He shoved the gun in Mickey’s hand with intentionally violent force. If he was real it wouldn’t feel so light, it’d be tight and awkward when he stuffed it in his fingers, and it was, and Ian was scared and shuddering as he actually gripped it. It didn’t fall to the ground through some transparency, he held it, and Ian had felt the ridges of his fingerprints when he pushed it underneath his thumb.

             “I wasn’t going to fucking shoot myself,” Ian uttered. “You’re seriously?” He laughed again. He didn’t know what exactly he was asking. He almost didn’t know what he was. He didn’t know what anything was, or what anything felt like. All he knew was that Mickey was in front of him and the feelings plumping his skin were too hot, and made the cool sunset humid.

_Mickey._

            He ran into him, hanging onto his shoulders, letting Mickey’s fingers, so soft and so rough, waltz around his back. Tears came. Tears he could not help. Tears that made him burp and sob in screams. Mickey did his best to calm him. Muttering soft swears, tiny comforts, and sweet, bitter, Mickey things.

            “Come on, let’s get outta here, Ian.” Ian wasn’t done feeling him though. His grip only tightened at what he said, and his nails nearly broke the threads of Mickey’s shirt, his nostrils almost burning from the breaths he took to inhale him. When he did pull away, his hands did not leave his face, thumbs crossing his jaw so hard to scratch at invisible stubble.

            “I’m sorry,” it was the calmest thing that had left him. Questions could come later. Outrage could sit on the windowsill until whatever explanation ignited it. Right now he had Mickey, and he wasn’t about to push anything more. “I thought you were dead.” _And in the past few months I’ve felt dead too._ But the rush that had hit him from burying his face into Mickey’s collar had breathed into him bits of life. Mickey’s face only flinched with hurt, and he glanced to Ian with glass eyes, sparkling like wet ice.

            “Come on, man.” Ian couldn’t go anywhere until they were raveled together. He tugged his head toward him, and crammed their lips in a sticky stack. Tongues splitting lips apart. He contorted his arm around Mickey’s neck to hold him still, and Mickey thawed, modeling together like separate soft drops of clay, clamped into a sudden, single mold. He couldn’t hold him close enough. He couldn’t kiss him deeply enough. No matter the ravenous way he gripped at him, tearing at him with  love that may have feasted a thousand lovers, he felt just as starved. He didn’t want to ever move. He wanted to stay with his tongue warming the inside of Mickey’s mouth forever.  

             But Mickey was murmuring for release and he painstakingly let go. Their lips both raw, and brushed with spit and redness. “Let’s go,” Mickey whispered, fingers lightly crossing Ian’s skin.

              Ian couldn’t have dissolved into it anymore without dying. He finally gave a slow, dreamy nod, and hung an arm around Mickey’s neck, Mick working his around Ian’s waist, he pressed him close, circling his fingers to swirl at his sides and rub into the skin underneath his thin jacket and transparent shirt.

             The car they walked to was gleaming black and twinkling under the light. Fiona and Lip leaned against her ride next to it, Lip worried, Fiona tense with fear. When they saw him, the woe wringing their muscles dissipated and Fiona went to hug him, shoving herself around oddly as Ian was still tied to Mickey’s hip.

            “What are you guys doing here?” Ian asked quietly. Fiona pulled away and almost grinned, shocked amusement wearying her brow.

            “That’s your question?” She smiled. Ian was quiet, and Mickey patted Ian on the back. Ian went to sit in the passenger seat, and stared through the glass as he let them exchange a quiet conversation. And then his heart chimed keys on a silent piano when Mickey opened the door and sat next to him. Both of their presence in the same car, side by side, heating one another. He sighed as Mickey shut the door, and pulled the car into drive. Behind the glass Fiona and Lip were loading themselves in Fi’s ride and driving away, while Mickey pulled toward the road himself.

             Ian didn’t take his eyes off of him. He leaned into the passenger window, scrunched lanky limbs into the corner and flicked his eyes over to him every few seconds, making sure that he didn’t disappear. Confirming that he was not dreaming and that the second he’d try to get a final glance he wouldn’t wake up to an absence. And he wasn’t. Mickey was there, Ian could hardly rip his eyes away, and he could tell Mickey was trying his hardest to stare into the car in front of him and not lock eyes in an infinite distraction that might lead to another nasty car crash.

            And once the feeling settled in his skin. That yes, he was here, he was alive, he was not going anywhere. The questions came, and the disgust strangled him. _Where the fuck has this asshole been? Why is he alive? How? Not that I’m complaining, but fuck, Mickey. His car? Where the hell did he get a car like this? Why is he working at Whole Foods? How did he know to find me there? Why is his hair like that? And his fingers? What the hell did he do to his fingers, all scarred up and shit? And how does he have an apartment, this far north? How can he afford any of this? Who the hell is he?_

            They pulled into a parking space marked with perfect white lines, and walked from the dark into his apartment. Mickey stressing to unlock the heavy door, Ian entered with some childish ignorance, an infantile anger and petulant contempt. _Even the place is alright._ It wasn’t gorgeous, it wasn’t loud, or dirty, just tiny, and a bit boring. But more than livable, and more than he could ever see Mickey owning.

           “Wanna drink or somethin’?” He asked, setting down his keys, he pulled the gun Ian had, and a silver one from the kitchen counter, hiding them somewhere in another room. Ian didn’t answer right away, touring the place with keen, small eyes, dark wood, and imitation tile in the kitchen, textured walls. “Fuck, water?”Mickey’s try at casualness bored him.

           “No.” His voice was soft and broken and he swallowed hard, almost choking on the knot in his throat. “Can we sit down?” Mickey nodded.

           “Yeah, yeah, we can.”

           So they sat down, Mickey switching off the TV. The quiet was the loudest it’d ever been as they sat next to each other on the couch, Ian situating himself in a half pretzel with his other leg dangling off the couch.

           “So-w,” Ian shook his head. “Fuck, I don’t even know what to ask.” _What the fuck Mickey_? Mickey rubbed at his brow.

            “I’ll just try ta fill ya in, a’ight?” Ian forced air out and twisted his head in allowance. Mickey took a deep breath to lubricate his speech.

           “When we split in Texas, I just kept drivin’.” Ian felt buzzed already, buzzed from that memory and buzzed from all that Mickey was about to tell him. “Way far, didn’t sleep much that first night. Made my way deep into the fuckin’ country, found this tourist spot down by the coast—Manzanillo.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I stopped by this hotel, real fuckhole, but shit, wasn’t gonna blow all your cash on some resort, you know?” Ian could almost feel the way his heart pounced around as he talked. “Anyways, I checked in and started livin’ there. The guy that owned it—Enzo—I talked to him, and my fuckin’ luck it turned out he’s a fugitive too.” He sighed. “So, we started I dunno, hangin’ out I guess.” Ian didn’t like the way Mickey breathed when he said they’d started hanging out.

           “He got me a job at the place, and I was doin’ a’ight for someone on the run, but they found out I was in Mexico ‘bout a month after I was gettin’ comfortable, and while I was there he kept talkin’ about how he planned on fakin’ his death, how he faked bunch other guys’. He told me how much it’d cost me, and I was freakin’ the fuck out once I saw my name on the news, so I asked him to help me.” Another strangled sigh. “So he did. Don’t gotta go  into much detail after that, scratched off my tats, did my hair. He helped me get some shit set up here, made me a new person, burned the hotel joint down, so we could get some cash off the insurance, threw his car my way.”

            It was all unbelievable. None of it was practical, or plausible, and Mickey had never stopped to surprise him. But Ian could believe the unbelievable, and Mickey was in front of him, so there wasn’t really any way to deny anything anymore, but, still, things fucking hurt. And Ian felt deceived, and quietly betrayed somehow.

           “But, Mickey, I carried your casket, I took it to the fucking grave—”

           “Yah, I know, Ian…Guy Enzo knew lifted these John Does from around the country, put ‘em up in tha hotel, burned ‘em all. Put one next to all my shit. Lucky the cops bought it,” He chuckled slightly, “Made them think it was me.” All this rumbled Ian even more. He hadn’t expected any _relief_ to come from whatever happened, but…

           He didn’t know why he came off so perplexed. That was of course how Mickey would come back to life. Some, amazing, dodge of the law, but, a fleck of Ian had hoped that it’d all be something more humble. He was running away, and he did it on some secret care for another, someone was threatening his life and he had to get them off his back. Yes, the police knew he was in Mexico. That was something. But something about the way it seemed, it didn’t have to go down the way it did. And some childish, absent part of Ian had hoped it’d been something romantic. That it would be prettier than just the cops going after him.

          “So, you faked your death, did all this shady shit, have been living here, for fuck knows how long, and you didn’t even—you couldn’t even let me know?” Ian had Mickey in a little muteness before his Chicago accent split the air without confidence.

          “No, but I mean, I was fuckin’ pissed, you left me at the border.” Ian softened at that. _I made him feel pretty broken._ The voices were hanging on that confession but Ian ignored them. “I only been here a few weeks.”

          “I felt pretty shitty for bailing on you last minute, if it makes you feel better.” He said it tart with sarcasm and Ian shook his head. Still baffled, his stomach was fuzzy and full. “How’d you know to find me at the high school?”

           “Fuckin’ Fiona  wouldn’t leave me alone. She got a call from Kevin sayin’ you was marchin’ down the street with a gun, fuck knew what you planned on doin’ with it.”

           “So, _they_ knew you were still alive—and they didn’t tell me?”

           “Don’t get pissed at them, they weren’t supposed to find out. And hell if you’d believe shit they’d say anyway, man.” He was right. He wouldn’t have believed Fiona or Lip if they told him Mickey was alive. En contraire, he would’ve been infuriated. Wrecked and harmed that they would’ve toyed with his emotions like that.

           “Guess you’re right,” he admitted aloud, a humming growl under his breath. His eyes darted up to Mickey’s, serious and deathly. “Why’d you come back?” He watched Mickey fidget and swallow, his eyelashes fluttering uncomfortably.

           “I faked my death to get the feds off me, the fuck would I stay in Mexico for?”

           “No. I mean, why did you come back to Chicago? You could’ve gone anywhere, any other state, it’d look better, and not be so risky. Why did you come here?” He knew the answer. He wasn’t cocky, or entitled, or arrogant to the amount of love Mickey had for him. But he knew. He wasn’t stupid enough to not know. And he was relieved when Mickey admitted it.

           “You, Ian.”

           There wasn’t any more cold. There wasn’t any more pain, just a tilt of a head and a few more tears. Some new creation of emotion, some feeling that there was not words for. Something he’d never felt before, and he’d doubted anyone else had. There wasn’t a name for it, but it was balmy at first, tickling him and gliding him through fields of happiness, love and moments of admiration, and then burning, nauseating pangs of anger. Of rage. Of swears and curses and maddening bolts of lighted, sinful wrath.

           “What the _fuck_?” He sobbed before he stood. Fire. Red and hot and cool all at once flared inside Ian’s every vessel. “You know how much I blamed myself for you being dead! Do you know how much I started to fucking _hate_ myself! How the fuck could you do this? How could you do this to me?” His voice hadn’t been louder. Glass shattering. “If you came back for _me_ , why the hell didn’t you tell me!” It annoyed him that his voice could not get any louder, and the pain of pulling his hair from his skull shaded any homicidal feeling. He tore at his scalp rough enough to bleed through his pores. “ _WHY! WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THIS_ TO ME!”

            This wasn’t supposed to happen. These things just _didn’t_ happen. _People don’t get to be dead for months, and then just rise one day, and say “whoops here I am, sorry I didn’t tell you!”_ That wasn’t how things worked. People didn’t do that. People just _didn’t_ do that.

           Everything shifted.

           Ian didn’t want to look at him ever again. He knew he was real. But he almost didn’t want him to be. Hating Mickey would hurt worse than missing him, but in that second it was all that coursed through him. Hatred. A sliver of disgust, sick from just looking at him. He’d caused him insurmountable bouts of pain. Worse things he’d ever felt before. And for what? Some contempt? Some pussy, broken hearted crap that smashed him at the border? No. He didn’t get to do that. He didn’t get to disappear forever, and then just show up. He hated him. Then and there, he _despised_ him, and he didn’t want to ever see him again.

         “Ian,” Mickey went to touch at his hand, and Ian stumbled back as though he’d almost stepped into shit. The hurt on Mickey’s face was scary. “Fuck, Ian, I’m sorry.” Ian could’ve thrown up. “I don’t know what the fuck ta say.”

         “Then _don’t_. Don’t say shit. You’ve done enough already.” Ian scoffed in disbelief. “I ruined my life, because of _you_.”

         “Ian, look, I got bank, I got shit goin’ for me, we can—I can lend you one—”

          Ian shook his head, and laughed cynically. If his eyebrows had hardened anymore they would’ve crumbled. “I don’t want your fuckin’ charity.” Ian shook like a nervous dog, there was no way to express any of it, and it was beating on him. “Fuck, Mickey.”

          He had to say it. Mickey had hurt him more than anyone in his life ever had. He’d broken him beyond repair, and scratched the pieces in the pavement. Ian would be damned if he got to walk away feeling pity for him, pity and tiny taints of pain. No. He didn’t get that. _That’s_ _not how things worked_.

         “I _hate_ you, Mickey. _I FUCKING HATE YOU_!” He stabbed his fists through the air and turned away, walking fast toward the door. He paid no attention to Mickey’s small steps after him.

         “Ian, don’t—I didn’t know how the fuck to tell you! You can’t—” Mickey lowered his voice to say it, “Ian, I love you.”

          Ian kept his hand on the handle of the door, and ground his teeth together. It was Mickey’s honest words, his try at something that he really meant. A tear in his heart, no tainted doubt stammered them. He really hadn’t known how to tell him. And he really did love him. And it was all words that had grown from something only between the two of them. And any other day, in any other context, his flowery attempt at redemption might’ve healed Ian, might’ve pulled him back. _But not today, not like this._

         “Y’know what?” Ian turned to look at him, repulsed, vomit threatened to pour, but he forced it down. “I wish you actually _were_ dead.”

          The door slam was thunder.


	21. MICKEY

         And the silence was like death.

         After the shock had sunk in, and the wham of pain that flung through the boom of the door settled, Mickey’s initial move had been to run after him. Naturally, chasing the guy had been his first thought, and he’d sprinted down the few flights of stairs and followed him all the way into the parking lot. But as soon as Mickey had slapped his hand on Ian’s shoulder, trying to force him around as he rambled swears and apologies, Ian’s weak fist had collided with Mickey’s jaw, and he left Mickey holding onto it as he walked from the apartment complex and onto the nearest bus before anything else could be said.

        “Christ,” Mickey grunted, still cradling his face. It wasn’t so hard of a punch, but the force of it had sent Mickey’s teeth to slit his tongue, and blood teased the inside of his mouth.

 _This,_ he thought _, again._ It was happening again. He was breaking again. His skin was falling apart, his eyes were bursting, his heart was giving out, and his stomach was dissolving. He was deformed, and cracked, and made of ice and snow, and Ian was picking at him until he avalanched. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

         With him running away to the army when they'd only been teenagers, leaving him in spite of marrying Svetlana, the gruesome time Ian had called him over after being out of town for weeks, filling him with relief and then excruciation as he stood in front of his house, his throat parched in ways that had naught to do with the cool, dry air, listening to him announce that he didn’t want him anymore. And then Mexico. Some fantasy he’d been living in for so long. Ian’s abandonment had been the only thing to bring him out of it. And now there was this, this, this scare of a reaction, this threat to his sanity. He couldn’t let Ian want him dead. He couldn’t be dead to him. Not now that he knew he was alive.

        “ _A minute, and then never again._ ”

The words were asphyxiating, damn Fiona for ever saying them. He couldn’t let Ian _hate_ him forever. Even if he wasn’t his, he couldn’t let him hate him. It’d torn him in half to hear him say all that, even though he knew Ian still felt something. He knew that much from the look of relief on Ian’s face at the baseball field, the strength with which he kissed him, the power in his arms as he’d nearly broke Mickey’s neck trying to force him deeper into it.

         And even if Ian really did hate him, Mickey wasn’t so dull to think he didn’t care at all. After all, hate still tied him to him. Not caring would’ve cut the ribbon and killed him more. _But hell if I know how much he'll give a shit about any a that after all I did to him,_ thought Mickey. _I didn’t think it’d be this bad._

         He feared Ian’s disdain would triumph all other feeling. Considering how crushed he’d been, all that had broken him and built him back up, and torn him down again, it seemed only a matter of time before all Mickey’s wrongs piled onto everything else he’d made Ian feel and snip the taught band pulling them together. He’d done too much, he’d hurt him too much, seeing him had said it all, Ian was probably asking himself right now if Mickey was worth shit to him after all he’d put him through, and given the many times he’d chosen to look the other way, knowing the burning hate Ian felt for him at the moment, Mickey felt he knew the answer.

         His fingers were sweaty on the leather of the steering wheel as he stopped at a gas station, pumping oil inside his car, and staring at the hot streams as they shot into the tank. He hadn't ever thought a fucking gas pump would make him think on things, but the splash reminded him of Mexico.

          It reminded him of dumping gas up and down the hallways of the hotel, barely breathing through linen, before the place sizzled and crushed eight dead bodies. The months that followed, the pain of Enzo swiping away skin from his knuckles, skin that was so close to the bone, he’d sometimes wondered if the ivory underneath had been flattened. All this he’d done to fake his death. All this, he’d done just to make the thing more believable, more final.

         Enzo had told him if he’d not been a fugitive it would’ve been easier. They could've made a suicide claim, say he’d fell off some fictional boat and rotted in the ocean. But these stories were not like to be trusted when it came to estranged inmates, and so the bodies they’d burned and identified had made it as definite as possible. It had made it so that the Chicago police wouldn’t think about looking for him again. It made it so that he could be with Ian. But Ian had just declared that he hated him before he slammed a door in his face. And so what could he say his efforts were for?

          It was heavenly to not have to worry about the police. He was still wary of authority. He didn’t walk outside without thick glasses or reflective shades to shield him, and he would’ve faked his death regardless of his redheaded boyfriend, but he certainly wouldn’t have gone to some of the lengths he had to come back to Chicago if it weren’t for Ian.

           He should’ve told him first. He should’ve rushed onto his doorstep and brought him into greedy arms. Better yet, he should’ve written him a letter like the one he’d written to his brothers. That may have solved everything and saved them this entire mess. But of course, he’d been too selfishly scared to do all this. _Did everything you shouldn’t have done, dumbass._ And it was only now that he _really_ saw this, really _felt_ it, and the pain was unbearable.

          “ _A minute, and then never again._ ”

            He could try to reason with him. He could go to his house. Yeah, yeah, he had to try and reason with him. He couldn’t just _give up_. He’d try as long as he could. After everything he’d risked, he had to. Dammit, he was the reason he’d come back to Chicago. _And I’m the reason Ian screwed himself up._

            He’d done just fine without him, and then Mickey came, or left, whatever, and fucked shit up. And maybe it _was_ time to just leave him alone, it seemed Ian was through with it after all he’d screamed at him, but good god, those thoughts were bullets

            He just wanted something nice, goddammit, something nice that would _last_. No matter how precious it all sounded, he wanted Ian, he wanted a long time with Ian, he wanted—so much he’d never had before, and all that he was afraid he’d never get. He’d been through more in twenty two years than some people had in a lifetime. Couldn’t he just get a break, could he just get that? _Fucking, God, if there is one, please._ He prayed without faith and internally screamed, finalizing what he’d known his entire life, _Life ain’t a fairytale, and we don’t always get what we want._ It would’ve worked nice for an epitaph, too bad he was already dead.

 

For a while he wandered around Chicago in his car without destination. He couldn’t stand the smell of his apartment. Not right now. The most recent memory of the place still sat in the air and he wanted not to feel it.

          The only place he wanted to be was a place he shouldn’t have gone, and he was still wondering if he was going to go to the place now, or later.

           He’d crossed the same stoplight for the fourth time, pondering it, his thoughts driving him mad. He’d already made his mind up a little while ago he _was_ going to go to Ian’s house some way or the other, but when, he didn’t know.

           He wanted to go now, but it was getting late. Time was fleeting and midnight approached. But he didn’t know if he could stand waiting to see him again either. He just had to know now if it was the time to let go. He had to know now, because if Ian really wanted nothing to do with him, he’d just have to let him walk away and let it be the time where his anger bit him, and he found some other way to patch the wounds. And he didn’t want to spend weeks or months waiting for that moment of truth to come.

           He’d thought of everything he wanted to tell him as he was driving, so many conversations he’d played out inside his head. He wanted to actually say some of it, before he lost his courage or forgot it all. And as the stars stood out in the black sky, boldness swelled within him…or maybe it was desperation or codependency…it didn’t matter.  All that was certain was that it was pushing him and pushing him to just see him. After all, he wasn’t even sure if he’d got home safely or not. At the very least he could just go there and make sure he was okay. _Yeah, I’ll just see if he’s okay. And if he wants me gone, I’ll be gone._

            His headlights gleamed onto the windows and shook a glare across the Gallagher house. He parked to the side of the street and made quick, little, desperate steps toward the front door. His heartbeats were big and loud. _Worst thing he does is tell me how much he hates me again_ , he tried with weak comfort. He tapped a shy fist on the door, and ignored the muscles that were trying to choke the life from him, begging him not to do this.

            “Hey.” The door creaked open when Fiona answered it, and she shut it softly behind her, irritation ruling her face as she stood on the porch next to him. “You’re fuckin’ lucky I’m the one that answered,” she spat. Mickey waved a hand, and she sighed. “What’s up?” Mickey fought his voice over empty lungs.

            “Ian asleep?” he pleaded. Fiona’s brow wrinkled.

            “No, I—thought he went home with you.”

            “Yeah, he did, then he cussed me out, hit me in tha fuckin’ face and left, thought he’d come back to his house—he ain’t here?”

            “No.”

            “Fuck.” _Jesus Christ why’s this fucker gotta disappear every five seconds_?

            “Jesus,” Fiona moaned. She was dressed in comfy shorts and a t-shirt, clearly she was trying to sleep. She shook her head with distressed vigor. “I’ll fucking call him. God, this shit is getting fuckin’ annoying.” Her voice faded as she vanished back into the house, fetching her phone; she returned to the porch with it held to her ear. Mickey could hear the hum of its ring go on for too long, before it substituted Ian’s voice with the tone of the voicemail lady. Fiona swore.

           “You know where he woulda gone this time?” Mickey shook his head and Fiona shrugged, “Guess he’ll have to carry his own damn weight, I’m tired of playing hide and seek.” She paused for a moment, and glanced at her newly lit phone screen.

           “What is it?” asked Mickey.

            She read the text message, “‘I’m good, be home later,’ least we know he’s safe.” Mickey nodded, glad to know he was all right, disappointed that none of what he’d wanted to satisfy was satisfied. The only noise was the ticks of the crickets and his screaming mind, and both of them were endless and aggravating.

            Swallowing the lumps in his throat, he cursed himself as his eyes began to sting, panic disturbing him. He immediately shook his head, trying his best to blink the moistness dry, and snort away tears. Rubbing at his nose, he cleared his throat. “Well, you was right, Gallagher,” he smiled sadly, “he _fuckin’_ hates me.”A sigh. “Guess I can’t blame ‘im though, after…” Fiona angled her head with tenderness.

            “He might be angry right now, Mickey, but…” His tears weren’t pushing away as easily as before, and he forced down the sob he was suppressing in an audible gulp. _You better not fucking cry in front of his sister, Mickey._ “…I never seen someone make him as happy as you did—do.” What she said was nice, but it did nothing for him.

             He rubbed his eye roughly, pretending to scratch it. “Fuck,” Mickey whispered, “I’m gonna go.” He scratched his hair and Fiona frowned. He was surprised; she looked as though she was genuinely sorry for him.

 

He’d planned on getting drunk as soon as he’d left Ian’s house, and when he’d stepped into the ugly dive with black tabletops, he headed immediately towards the bar as though he was a refugee seeking asylum, grunting with anger when a heavy biker bumped into him

             Already on edge, Mickey shot around and cursed. “Watch where the fuck you’re going shithead.” The guy looked at him with mean, wild eyebrows above a long mustache.

            “You better watch who yer talkin’ to little boy.” He spoke in a low, gruff tone that ignited Mickey.

            “Call me a boy again, fuckface.” Mickey’s knuckles cracked, and he could feel the tight skin of his scars stretching, before another, tipsy voice split the air and turned Mickey’s head the other way.

            “Aw, sit down and shut up, kid. Suicide ain’t the answer,” the other guy said, seated at the bar. His voice was hoarse yet buttery, and his eyes were exasperated. Salt and pepper hair sat on his head, above a face that lightly resembled Kevin Spacey. Mickey regulated his breath and did so begrudgingly, only because he was right. The biker towered over both of them and could’ve probably tossed Mickey across the bar with ease.

            Sighing, Mick relaxed himself as he sat on a worn stool next to the guy and ordered whiskey on rocks. Sipping it as he ran his fingers through his hair, angered more by the light strand that fell in front of his face. He hadn’t realized how much he’d liked his hair black before it was a too lustrous, light brown that mocked his entire personality. _Could dye it back twenty years from now,_ he thought wryly. He took another burning sip of alcohol and Kevin Spacey chuckled.

            “You’re wife wanna divorce, or tell ya she’s pregnant?” His lapels were worn out over a crumpled unbuttoned oxford, and Mickey pursed his lips and shook his head.

            “Ain’t married.”

            “Lucky you, stay that way,” the man uttered. “I’m Vaughn. You gotta name?”

            “Mickey,” he didn’t think before he said it and corrected himself though he didn’t really care. “Nick, fuck, whatever.”

            “Hmm, Mickey-Nick.” He chuckled again, his laugh was cool and deep. “Ain’t gonna ask whatever you’re tryna hide.” Mickey shrugged and rubbed his knuckles where Ian had punched him as he glanced to Vaughn with annoyance.

            “The fuck you want, man?”

            “Beer and someone to talk to that doesn’t give a shit. Same reason a lot of people come to a cheap, empty bar at eleven thirty.” The man smiled smugly, and a tiny, sideways grin came on to Mickey’s face that he cursed himself for. He didn’t engage in bar conversation with strangers. That simply wasn’t his _thing._ He came to a bar to sit, to be alone and to drink himself numb. That was what he normally did anyway, though normal was far from the word he’d use to describe today.

            “Happen to you?” Mickey asked. Vaughn took a long swig of beer, and slammed the bottle onto the counter surface, fizz lapping out onto the neck.

            “Just walked in on my brother _fucking_ my wife.”

            That was shitty, Mick knew, but he couldn’t help the tiny laugh that left his lips. “Shit, man.”

            “Yeah, I had little more to say than that.” Examining the guy further, Mickey was a bit surprised by the cheap beer he drank. His suit and watch said he could afford something more expensive. “You gonna show me yours now?” Mick sank in a breath and stared into his glass.

            “It’s complicated,” he whispered.

            “Isn’t everything?” Vaughn scoffed. “Give me the short version, I don’t plan on going home tonight anyway.” Mickey was settling into the conversation, and so he let the words roll off of his tongue.

            “I guess you could say I told a big fuckin’ lie to someone—and now they prolly are thinkin’ about murderin’ my ass and burying the pieces up by the lake.” The speech was detached, but he could now see why people conversed in these places, about these things, nothing needed explanation, no hard preamble. They both spoke comfortably, loose and calm, ignorant to whatever soreness should’ve been there because they probably wouldn’t see each other ever again.

            “How big of a lie is big?” Vaughn asked.

            “They thought I was fuckin’ dead for a few months big.”

            “Oh, god,” Vaughn said, “don’t worry, I bet you they’ll get over it in a _day_. Come knocking down your door just ta fucking _sleep_ where you are ‘cause their so damn relieved.” Mickey’s neck jerked back. His face was tangled with annoyance when he looked to him.

            “What kinda nineteenth century, ancient bullshit logic is ‘at?” Mickey asked, aggravated and impatient.

             Vaughn laughed again and sipped his beer. “Damn, I don’t look that old, do I?” His hands were rough as he fiddled with the silver band on his ring finger. “They might _act_ pissed off now after seein’ ya in so long. But nine out of ten times they’re pissed off ‘cause they’re so damn happy.” He tapped a thin cigar out of a case and held it between his dry fingers. “How’d you feel if someone you knew just showed back up when you thought they were dead?” The man shrugged. “Jesus is still getting a rap. Christians, happy he was resurrected, spreading his _word_ like a eunuch ape on fire—average person’s gotta meet somewhere in the middle.”

            “Guess.” Mickey swallowed.

            “And hey, if it’s your girl, hell may hath no fury like a woman’s scorn, but it ain’t gonna last forever.” Mickey nodded.

            “Well, I ain’t dealin’ with a chick.” Mickey gave Vaughn a look with raised brows, and realization swam over him.

            “Ha, you’re good at not showing it.” Mickey nodded his head once, lips in a hard line.

            “Gotta be if you’re from the Southside.”

            “That’s the truth.” He tipped his beer in agreement, before he brought it to his mouth again.

            “Fuck,” Mickey held his head in his hands. “I really fucked up on this one, I never seen him this pissed off. And I ain’t been through the hell I been through to just be done, but I’m pretty sure he don’t want fuck _all_ to do with me.” The man clicked his lips across his teeth and rolled his eyes.

            “God, don’t be so _fucking_ stupid, kid.”

            Mickey recoiled, eyes wide and angry.“What the fuck—”

            “No, shut up, don’t get heated, and listen to me, you don’t let that shit happen, if you’re smart, anyway. Every dumb, young, twenty year old says some dumb shit like that, and ends up screwing over their life. ‘I fucked myself over once, can’t do anything now,’” he mimicked. “Give up on all shit you coulda done, and spend the rest of your life jacking off in the bathroom of some shitty office. All because you don’t know the half of whatever your goin’ through. You have no _idea_ what the hell is goin’ on in other peoples’ heads. Do you?” Mickey grimaced. He didn’t know why the hell this guy was acting like he was his father all of a sudden, but it was pissing him off.

            “Fuck man, you don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about. This is _way_ different then most shit twenty year olds gotta deal with.” Mickey grumbled and swished another sip of whiskey into his mouth. Vaughn shook his head and groaned.

            “Your guy, he look good?”

            Mickey blinked with confusion but answered anyways, “Yeah, I mean, yeah.”

            “You love him?”

            “Dude, fuck off.”

            “So you do.” Vaughn sighed and finally lit the cigar he’d been waving around, soaking in sweet smelling tobacco. “If ya love the guy, and he looks good, keep him. Ya’d think it’d be common fuckin’ sense, but nowadays people like ta spew a load a bullshit about how looks don’t matter, and you gotta find someone that treats ya right, that’s ‘good for you,’ whatever the hell that means. Lemme tell ya, nobody does fuckall that’s good for them. I made my way up by doing a shit ton of evil fuckery, been to prison four times and now I got money and misery, and the only girl with tits like grapefruits and a face like Marilyn that I ever seriously _loved_  is living with some lawyer in Minnesota because I got scared that I actually gave a shit about someone. And if she came running into my arms, I’d be pretty damn happy, even if I don’t show it none.” He tapped some ash into the glass ash tray on the counter before taking another drag. “You don’t let a good thing go, fuck what anyone else might say. You keep that shit till you die.” He tossed a fifty on the counter. “Should be enough for both of us,” he said under his breath, before he looked up, setting his eyes to burn into Mickey’s as he smoked the cigar fast.

            “Your guy’s happy, kid,” Vaughn said, “and if I was you, I’d ghost on over and remind him how fucking happy he is,” he spoke with a gust of breath and put the smoke out. “Now, I’m gonna go find myself a hooker and pretend to be in love for a night before I throw my bitch of a wife out on the street, because thank God for prenups, and hope you actually take my shitty advice, because you act like the little Godfather I thought I was when I was your age and I ain’t got a whole lot left to live for. Don’t be stupid kid, you gotta blank slate, don’t waste it trying to find somethin’ that ain’t worth shit.” Vaughn walked out, with a quick, drunk, “good talk,” that he used for a goodbye, leaving Mickey speechless and annoyed.

            _Prick,_ he thought, defensive, _drunk as hell_. Next time some old dude talked to him in a bar, he’d just leave it alone. He was all for advice, but all this guy had was some sort of rude, angry, contemptuous lesson to teach, and Mickey hadn’t ever been much of a learner. And with a deep sigh, and a shake of his head, he took a final sip of his drink before he stood to leave.

 

Even if he _wanted_ to go to Ian, he couldn’t, no one knew where he was. At least that’s what he forced himself to think so he didn’t stay up all night looking for him. But his thoughts were still blowing around his mind as he pulled into the hooded parking space outside the apartment building. He was tired and still a bit angry, and when he stepped inside, his loneliness brought all he’d been dissociating from inside the bar to the forefront in a quick strike.

            Dammit, he’d said he hated him. Ian had said he hated him, and the thought made him hate himself a little bit too. _God, why didn’t I say somethin’_ else? He didn’t know what he would’ve said, he didn’t know what might’ve been better than “I love you,” words he saved for rare people in rarer times. Nothing he could’ve said mattered. Ian resented him, and Mickey had only himself to blame.

            Shaking his head at the ramblings, he flung open the fridge. Now that he was home, now that he was thinking instead of having his ear chewed off by some random, old chump, he _really_ wanted to get drunk.

           He was about to pull a beer from it, fingertips touching the metal tab, but he stopped and swore. It was the only one in there, and he had no desire to drink one if he couldn’t drink many. Grunting, he threw the can back inside and went to the bathroom to shower, taking a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. He felt like stabbing himself, with his goddamn hair, his pressed collar, and those scars across his fingers, he was a completely different person. And this was his life now. Goddammit, this was his life now and Ian didn’t want him. If it was all to be with someone he loved, it would’ve been worth it. _But I ain’t now am I_?

           And there came the tears, there came the devastated reaction he’d somehow avoided. Seeing himself and hating it made his cheeks puff crimson and his eyes redden. He dodged the sobs and ripped his knuckles across his eyes. He would’ve screamed but he was too choked up. He hadn’t cried this hard since Mexico.

 _“_ I _hate_ you, Mickey _. I FUCKING HATE YOU_! _”_ The words still seemed to echo through the walls, and Mickey shook his head, wiping the memory away.

           He washed the tears from his face in the heat of his shower, and dried himself off roughly. He needed to sleep. He couldn’t stand to be awake anymore. His thoughts were driving him insane, and his body was numb and raw all at once, and his eyes and nose were wet and stuffy. And he knew in the morning all that Ian had said would bounce off the back of his head and hit him right in the face, but he’d like to enjoy the few hours he could be unconscious and not thinking about him.

           He left his clothes on the floor and wrapped the rough towel around his waist. Opening the door to his bedroom, he pulled on some boxers, took the towel from around him to shake out his hair, before glancing behind him, slow and shaken, toward a couple of crunched beer cans reflecting moonlight on his night stand, a pile of clothes by his bed topped with worn boots, and his black sheets, mussed and full, covering a redhead with pale skin and skinny arms, passed out on his stomach.

           He didn’t want to admit to that creep in the bar being in anyway right, so he held his pride as he settled underneath the covers and ran a thumb along Ian’s cheek without waking him. _Took less than a day, asshole._


	22. IAN

            When Ian stretched his arms along the spread of the black sheets, he’d forgotten to expect another person’s skin to be within his reach, and once his fingertips bumped Mickey’s bicep, he sighed with pure joy. He’d waited hours for him to come back last night, waiting, so he could apologize and kiss him again, but he hadn’t come back, not while he was awake anyway. And now here he was—waking up next to him with sweet casualness, as though he’d come from a bad dream, and entered a homely life that had been there all along. He wouldn’t miss the days spent alone under ice cold sheets.

            Ian didn’t let his fingers leave Mickey. He rubbed them silently along the round muscle and looked with thick care at the curvature of his back, just as delicate as any other sleeping soul. Ian’s anger may have been boiling at first, but once it’d come to a simmer the only thing burning was his need to be around him, to feel that he was alive, to watch the ruddiness of his cheeks, and taste the tart of his skin.

  * _God you’re pathetic._



_Whatever, shut up_ , Ian retorted. He could no longer deny that what he was hearing was something within him, something hidden in his subconscious. Maybe it _was_ a bit pathetic for him to come back so soon, wandering into Mickey’s bed like he was supposed to be there, but Ian couldn’t help it. He was still angry. He was still _painfully_ angry, but Mickey was alive for Christ’s sake. He was _fucking_ alive, and Ian sighed with love and relief at that, burrowing his arm underneath Mickey’s and holding him tight to his chest as they lay on their sides. He pressed his face in his neck and tried his best at quiet gentleness even though Mickey was already stirring underneath his arm. He glanced back at Ian lazily, grogginess tight in his muscles. He turned onto his back. Ian drew the blankets over his own shoulder to shield his chest. Mick was smiling.

            “How’d you get in?” Ian scoffed and curled his fingers around Mickey’s ear to brush the little blond hairs by it. He’d never thought he’d see the day. _He still looks beautiful, though, no hair color could change that._

            “You left it unlocked.” Mickey shook his head with vigorous annoyance.

            “No I didn’t.” Ian squinted at him and dropped the hand from behind his ear.

            “What do you mean, no you didn’t? How the hell else would I have gotten in here?” Quiet laughs bubbled from their chests. “I knocked but you didn’t answer, and once I realized it was open I waited for you to get back in the living room,” Ian yawned into the rest of his sentence, “but you never did so I had a few and went to sleep.”

            “Yeah, I saw.” Mickey’s eyes were waving toward the cans by the side of the bed. “Nice that you just bust into people’s houses whenever you want.”

            “Well, it’s not like it’s just _some_ person’s house. You’re different,” Ian laughed, “you’re Mickey.”

             Mickey’s entire being seemed to melt at his words and he licked his lips, nervous. “Ian, what’s goin’ on?”

             Ian didn’t answer that. He wasn’t ready to answer that. He ignored the question and said with a hard thump of his heart that he had something to show him, before he shrugged the sheets down to expose the little arc of words above a deep black crucifix printed on his sternum. “Fuuuuck, Ian.” Mickey groaned.

             “You got mine. I didn’t think I was gonna ever see you again, wanted something to remember you by.” Mickey nodded. Ian wondered if Mickey’d had the same thing in mind when he’d carved the navy blue ink onto his chest in a prison cell. _Thinking you weren’t gonna see someone for fifteen years had to hurt pretty bad too._ “Well…I mean, that and I was sorta drunk…and high…on coke, and—ecstasy, but I don’t regret it. I did at first but, I don’t anymore.” Mickey’s face had twisted from doting affection and boyish welcome of the gesture to a knot of utter appall.

             “Ian, are you fucking dumb?”

             “What?” Ian said. “Don’t act like you’re some sorta saint.”

             “I know I’m not, but just ‘cause I do dumb shit don’t mean you should too.” Surprise hit Ian’s face and he shrugged a shoulder.

             “Well, it’s over now, I’m clean. But I got into some pretty heavy shit while you were in Mexico.” Ian could tell Mickey was thinking by the stutter in his breath, his mind finding a way to express whatever calculations were being made in his head.

            “Yesterday you wanted to kill me and now you’re creeped all up in my bed, fuck, are you, like, doin’ alright?”

              Ian rolled onto his back, and let his eyelids flutter toward the ceiling. It wasn’t as textured as the walls were.

 _Am I doing okay_? he thought, _what kinda question is that?_ He pressed his forearm to his forehead and closed his eyes. He knew what he meant. He knew what he was getting at, and even though the usual the mention of the thing, implied or direct, pissed him off, he answered honestly and as best he could.

             “No, Mickey, no, I’m not. I’m not okay. I ruined my shit ‘cause I thought you were dead, and I’ve been stupid, and reckless. I thought you were dead, and I thought it was all my fault, and—” He stopped when glass stabbed the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything I said. You know I didn’t fuckin’ mean it. And yeah, I’m a little depressed, but I have every right to be, and I’m sick of people acting like I don’t. I’m medicated, I saw a shrink, I have a follow up in a few months, but, Jesus, this is just a mind fuck,” he chuckled. “Like, I just, man, I don’t know what the fuck to say every time I look at you.” Ian turned his head away from the ceiling to look at Mickey, laying on his side and staring intently at Ian. His brows were bunched firmly together.

             “Well, what’re you gonna do? I know I’m fucking you up. Trust me, you ain’t the only one blaming yourself for shit. It ain’t easy living like I do, lookin’ over my shoulder every two seconds, keepin’ all my goddamn lies straight. Shit’s rough.” Ian took a deep breath, and looked into his eyes as though they were his, as though he could feel them in his own sockets, deep, rusty blue, sometimes shallow and crystal, now they were dark, longing, and sad. _I don’t know what to do._

              “I don’t know what to do, Mickey.”

              He wanted to be with him, raveled up in warm sheets and warmer skin, but he could not say that he wasn’t scared, or nervous, or mad about the entire thing. _Why does shit have to be such a mess_? Why couldn’t they just have a normal life, with a dog, and a welcome mat, and a white picket fence with a beautiful house? Maybe it was just him. Mickey knew his life wasn’t ideal, but he seemed fine with it. It was the best he could do with his situation. Maybe Ian was just too picky with what he was being fed.

  * _Look at him. He doesn’t need you. Fucker._



_God, not now, please don’t ruin this, just fuck, not now._ Ian cut the voices away, and stalled the conversation when he kissed Mickey firmly. Body’s intertwining, Mickey’s fingers ran over his back, and Ian held his hair. His mouth filled with Mickey’s tongue and he pulled at him harder, closer. There wasn’t enough to grab.

              Breathing heavy with anticipation, they helped each other out of their boxers, and sighed at the other’s touch to their groin. Mickey dug his nails in Ian’s back when the fullness of his cock was swelling within him, and Ian nuzzled his face in his shoulder, his grunts dewing spit onto Mickey’s neck.

              The strokes were firm but slow, forcing one other closer with rough strength that they made last as long as they could without wasting the morning. When they were done, they lay spent and sweaty, Ian limp on Mickey’s chest. The sheets were spoiled and smelled of salt and sex.

              “Fuck,” Mickey panted, his body was still flushed and tingling as he ran his fingers through Ian’s hair.

               Ian kissed him lazily, rubbing skin like velvet. He rested his head back on Mickey’s chest and Mickey pecked his lips on the top of it. “I need my medication,” Ian mentioned.

  * _Who cares? No one. Shut up._



               “Who’s home right now?” Mickey asked, Ian moaned at the scratch of Mickey’s nails down the valley of his back.

               “Think Carl, Fi, and Lip, Debbie’s back at Neil’s. Pretty sure Fiona let Liam have a sleepover.” Ian snickered, “Not like it matters, two of my siblings already knew about you, before I did.” Mickey’s eyes were apologetic.

                “Whatever, I’ll get them,” he muttered, fighting his way from underneath Ian. He tugged on the same underwear, and started to dress.

                “Right now?” It wasn’t meant to be a whine, but it was.

                “Yeah, I can drop ‘em off before work. I’ll be off ‘round six.” Ian nodded with woe. God, maybe he was being a bit pathetic, clingy at the least. He didn’t want him to go _anywhere._ He’d just gotten him back. Just looking at him buckle his belt shocked Ian with hunger as though they hadn’t just had sex, hot in only his jeans, a strand of blond hair dripped onto his face.

 _Blond, God, he’s blond_. Mickey was pulling on a white polo when Ian started to laugh, blistering and warm. “What?” Mickey looked confused and smiled nervously back at him.

                “You’re hair’s blond,” Ian said. Mickey rolled his eyes.

                “No, it’s not,” he said quickly, “it’s light brown.” Ian raised his eyebrows, took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his night stand and started to smoke it.

                “Light brown?”

                “Yah, like fuck—like caramel.” Ian laughed at that.

                “Whatever helps you sleep.” Mickey flipped him off and combed it out of his face.

                 When he went to pull the phony glasses from his nightstand, Ian stole them, kissing him deeply on the lips, and then shoving them over his ears, “I’m gonna go back to bed,” he whispered, passing his cigarette to Mickey. Mickey took it and started on a drag as he walked out of the bedroom door. “Mickey wait,” Ian suddenly pleaded, his voice was weak and small.

                 “Yeah?” he said, hanging a hand on the door frame. Ian smiled like a schoolboy.

                 “I’m gonna miss you—while you’re gone.” Mickey sighed and nodded.

                 “Miss you too.” He left and Ian nearly groaned at the sound of the front door shut and lock. He’d just started acting nauseously attached, and he was already tiring of his own behavior. He couldn’t help it. He was happy to have him to love again, and so he wrapped himself in blankets that smelled of him, and let the soft scent soothe him back to sleep.

 

When he woke up again, there wasn’t a single fiber in him that wanted to get up. It was toasty, the window letting sun beat on his face. His head was made of fog, and he didn’t feel like doing anything but wait for Mickey to get back so they could fuck again and talk the rest of the night. But, glancing to the clock, he saw it was only eleven, and he still had a good while to wait.

             He painstakingly managed to drag himself out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. A tiny smile twitched his lips at the sight of his orange pill bottles next to a glass of water and his hand only quivered slightly as he worked to open them, pressing them onto his tongue and gulping them down. He spilled some of the water onto his chest at the unnecessarily loud bangs on the door.

            “Eh, yo, better open this fuckin’ door, man!” Ian didn’t know whether to be angry or surprised when he heard Lip’s voice. _So they know where he lives too._ Ian threw on his jeans for politeness’s sake and opened the door. “Oh, you’re here.”

            “Yep,” Ian said, “why are you?” Lip inhaled.

            “Came ta ask him if he knew where you were since you never came home last night, now I guess I know. Where is the uh, convict in sheep's skin?”

            “Work. He stopped by the house to get my meds, you didn’t see him then?” Lip shook his head.

            “No, no, wasn’t there, I just came from AA, so—what’s goin’ on with that?” Ian let him inside and shut the door. Walking back to the kitchen, he popped open the last beer can inside of the fridge and shrugged.

            “Not sure yet, I’ll see.” _Now please drop it, before I kill myself trying to decipher all of this._

            “You stayin’ though?” Ian flicked his eyes around the room and plucked the tab on the can so that it made small chimes.

            “I don’t know, I don’t wanna be away from him for too long, since, you know, I thought I’d never see him again—but, fuck, I don’t know, that’s—I want to, just don’t know if I should.” Lip nodded, glancing uncomfortably at the beer in his hand. He scratched the back of his neck, a clear sign he was about to say something Ian wouldn’t like.

            “Well, maybe you should ease off the drinkin’ man, talkin’ with a dead dude’s hard enough. Don’t think bein’ drunk’s gonna make it any better. Should come with me to a meeting, one a these days, y’know?” Ian shot him a look and shook his head.

            “Lip, I’m not—okay, yeah,” he set the drink down and crossed his arms, “maybe I drink a little too much, but I don’t have a problem, alright?” A smirk crossed Lip’s lips.

             “Yeah, I know, I mean—I know, that’s what a lotta people say…just, forget about it for now.” Lip took a gander toward the extent of Mickey’s apartment. “Ain’t too bad for a cheap place a fugitive’s stayin’.” Ian nodded. “How ‘bout you come home, grab somma you’re stuff to keep here, yeah?” Ian’s eyes grew. He hadn’t been expecting Lip’s certainty before his own.

  * _He just knows how_ pathetic _you are._



_Fuck off._ Ian smiled. “Yeah, yeah I should.”

 

Ian was laying on the couch, mindlessly watching four old ladies bicker at each other on the Hallmark Channel when Mickey came home. His red hair was filled with fragrance, wet and freshly shampooed. Mickey set some of his things down and chuckled at him.

            “The fuck are you watchin’ _Golden Girls_?” he asked. Ian sat up, smiled, and shook his head. He turned it off.

            “Just, waiting for you.” Silence entered the room and pressed on Ian’s shoulders.

            “We still got a lot to sort out, huh?” Mickey sat down next to him.

            “Well, yeah, I mean—” Mickey cut his sentence short and spoke with desperate lover’s nerves.

            “Ian, I know I shoulda told you first. I’m fuckin’ sorry I didn’t. But dammit, I don’t know what the fuck else to say. Even if you didn’t mean all the shit you said, not all of it wadn’t true. I get it if this is too I dunno—just too much. It’s a bitch of a situation, and it’s hard to handle, and it’s risky as shit, ‘specially what I’m doin’ ‘round your family and everything but—” Ian held his hand up.

            “M-Mickey, just shut up for a second, okay?” Mickey’s swallow was visible and his lips pursed. “I get it, it’s hard and I get you’re walking on eggshells, but life for us was never easy to begin with. There’s some things we just can’t change, and this is one of them. But, Jesus, this is _my_ life, and when I die, I wanna make sure I spent it how I wanted, with the people I wanted. And yeah, it’s difficult, and risky, and shit…but we’ve been doing hard and risky shit since the day we met, and somehow we got through all of it. Think we can get through this too.” Ian took a deep breath, feeling completely exposed. He’d never been so honest, the feeling scared him, but he meant every word.

            Time was fleeting, the distance between birth and death: brief, and he didn’t want to waste it. Mickey seemed to know what he was doing as far as his own security went, and their entire relationship had been rough, risky. _Seems like it was just yesterday we were scared little teenagers sneaking around Terry’s back_ , Ian thought, _we went through some shit not a lotta kids go through._ They both knew pain, and risk, and how to handle it, perhaps more than they knew happiness. And Ian wanted that to change.

            He’d still hurt. It’d still get to him now and then that things couldn’t just be normal. But this was what they had, and even through the rage, the rush, and the _risk_ , it was what he wanted. After all, happiness was easy, attaining it was tough. Some sort of hardship was necessary to create something as easy as _happiness_. Balance assumed some sort of perfection, right? The greater the effort, the sweeter the reward?

            Choosing to stay with Mickey would be tiresome. It’d exert him, and exalt him, and the effort they’d both have to put in to make sure they weren’t discovered by the police would be mountainous. But Ian had been in love with his reward for years, and it would all be worth it if it meant it was his to reap.

            “Yeah, alright,” Mickey said, grinning like a fool. Ian kissed his smile.


	23. MICKEY

            When Mickey woke up, sorting through something to wear, he smiled to find his drawers fuller than they’d been the previous night before he ran out of the door. He only caught Ian for a second in the living room, wanting so much to linger, that he pushed himself off to work faster than he could think the thing over.

             The store was not as fragrant as it was usually, the bustle of customers was humble, and Mickey wore his excitement loud on the collar of his shirt, bright and polished in a way that he hadn’t been in a good few years. Like Mr. Rogers greeting the customers, cheerful and sparkling, beautiful beams outshined the careless jerks of a lip he’d called a smile when he’d first started working there. He might’ve looked ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it, Ian was back in his life, and the morning was suddenly the opening shot of a Disney movie, stars and all.

            “Whoa, someone’s happy,” Raquel said as she rolled the cart full with new gluten free cereal boxes to the breakfast section. Mickey began to undo the first box and push them into domino lines as he broke into his hundredth smile.

            “Yeah, well, y’know, good day, I guess,” Mickey said, trying his best at detachment. She nodded and pushed a line of oats to the back to squeeze in another box.

            “Why’s that?”

            Mickey shook his head. “Just, saw someone I haven’t in a while.” The wavering of his voice gave to whatever bundling of a feeling was twinkling through his eyes and Raquel smiled.

            “Boyfriend?” The light on his face excused him of an answer and Raquel took a large breath and crossed her arms, gesturing her head to Brittany, bagging a customer’s items with eyes that hung low like a wounded dog. “Britt’s pretty crushed.”

            “Her issue,” Mickey said too fast and undid another cardboard box. He felt a twinge of remorse for blasting his anger onto Brittany, but he wanted most of all for the teenager to just leave him the fuck alone, even if it meant a tiny spec of hostility.

            “So, what’s he like?” she asked, licking her lips, bored from work, and hungry for conversation. She rested her elbows on the top of the trolley, and looked to Mickey intently.

            “Huh?”

            “What’s your boyfriend like?” Her voice had become impatient and the look to her was all but that of a gossiping teenage girl, funny looking on a woman near thirty.

            “Oh,” Mick laughed, suddenly shy. Seldom had he spoke to others about Ian, not very much with Enzo, despite Enzo’s constant songs of Marcello, and not very much with anyone else. Vaughn’s drunken comment had ruffled him enough in the bar, and all else he had to say about Ian he would’ve liked to keep to himself. But Raquel had spoken casually and politely, and clearly as though she wouldn’t allow his silence, and so he answered in a way he thought she’d appreciate. “Well—he’s ginger, for one.” She shook her head with her lazy green eyes.

            “No, I mean, what’s he _like_.” Mickey breathed heavily, and shrugged as he continued with stocking the shelves. The fullness of his hesitance nearly broke his skin. That was a way to talk out of his comfort zone. It was funny how still some of those things got to him. The only time he could ever account for detailing all he could about Ian was in prison. In prison, he would get high and pour and ramble without remembering it. But he wasn’t high, and he wasn’t in prison, and she picked at him innocently and he felt angry that his face was white enough to show redness, and embarrassed that he was actually nervous to talk about him.

“He’s…funny, I guess, dramatic as hell, crazy, tough when he wants to be.” She smiled. “We known each other a while, been through a lotta shit together, think he knows me better than I know myself sometimes.” She was grinning in the naïve way children do, and Mickey pursed his lips in discomfort.

            “I like the way you talk about him,” she’d said dreamily and patted his shoulder, “you don’t hear a lotta people muse about others like that anymore. At least not in a way that’s not stupid or careless, most people just say the same shit all the time and don’t take a breath to feel it.” Mickey nodded.

            “Yeah, well, I don’t talk about him too much.” She nodded.

            “I can tell.” Understanding had coursed through their gazes and Mickey had felt a little bit of trust budding at the back of his neck. Comfort came slowly with Mickey, and trust took even longer, but the care he felt in her eyes and the happiness within her smile spread warmth in him that grew a tad of companionship.

            And then Brittany crept up behind him. Walking with stubby, petite steps that her thin little legs gave her, she came almost silently but he still was able to sense her. He’d developed a sort of radar for the chipmunk of a teenager. And when he’d slowly turned around, he hated the little fleck of crossness he’d had to suppress at the sight of her standing short, and scared, and ashamed, cheeks pink with emotion and black eyes sickly passionate.

            “You know, I was thinking, just a little bit, and wondering that maybe if you’ve never been with a girl, maybe you should—just give it a spin.” Her voice was wan with hope and Mickey laughed. Another time he would’ve told her to fuck off, but he was too filled with joy at the knowledge of knowing he’d see Ian later to give a shit.

            “Thanks, but, I have, and it ain’t my cup a coffee.” Her face was contorted into something that read a finger snap of disappointment, and all the rest of her hope fell to the floor before she pierced the air with her desperation.

            “Could you at least like me?” she pleaded. Mickey almost jumped at the pitch. _Like a dying squirrel._ “Just, as a person. You never talk to me, I can tell you hate me. Please, I just don’t want you to hate me, I don’t want anyone to hate me. I hate it when people hate me.” Mickey slapped his hand onto the last box, and looked to her, seriousness pulling on his words.

            “Listen to me, alright?” He breathed and did his best to stay patient. “I ain’t got time to hate teenage girls. But if ya learned to leave people the hell alone when they asked the first time, people might like ya more.” She’d pursed rosy lips and road on the coat tails of everything he’d said, nodding furiously.

            “Okay, I won’t do that, I mean—I’ll listen more. I’ll try not to be so pushy.” Spitfire and then a moment of silence, “So…you’re not mad at me?” Mickey shook his head. “Oh, great,” she sighed with relief. “Well, you could still be my GBF—gay best friend—right?” Mickey’s blinks were direct and calm for the sake of remaining calm. “Leave you alone?” He nodded. “Right now?” He nodded. “Okay, sorry, yeah, I’ll go.” She walked away, and he turned back with strength in his chest. He and Raquel were finally stocking the last section.

            “You didn’t cuss her out this time,” Raquel mocked. Mickey frowned and flung a hand up.

            “I was pissed the other day, a’ight?”

            “Nah, man, I get it, I’m praying my daughter doesn’t end up like her.” Mick tilted his head at that.

            “You gotta kid?”

            “Yep,” Raquel said, “was married to her dad, but he ended up in jail. Just me and her now. Kaijah. She’s got my eyes, girl’s gorgeous.”

            “I—” His heart had jumped in his throat when he was about to open up about Yevgeny, but he let the lump stop him from speaking. He couldn’t talk about him, he couldn’t say anything about his past life and risk shaking the cover he had. And the reality of that sunk deep and gauged parts of him out with plunders of pain, almost making his tongue bleed with the hardness he’d need to use to constantly bite it. Hell, he didn’t even know where his son was anymore, or his crazy Russian ex-wife. _Should ask Ian,_ he thought.

            The evidence that Ian was truly the only reason he’d come to Chicago breathed with every second he spent maintaining his lies, and the exhaustion it sent him was filled with sour sweetness. “Bet she is,” he managed and Raquel tapped her fingers along a crossed elbow in a way that told that she was pondering herself the exhaustion of his maintaining his lies.

            “Yeah…” Her tone was distant. “We should get together sometime. Outta here, have some drinks, play cards, y’know?” He smiled, friendly and wary.

            “Maybe.”

            “We should,” she nudged, “you’re a cool dude, you’re weird, and mysterious, but you’re chill,” she chuckled, “wanna find out why the hell you’re so damn secretive.” Mickey turned his lip up in an irritated nervousness.

             “Too bad we don’t always get what we want.” Raquel laughed, but Mickey’s face was hard as stone.

 

After their conversation things had gone by smooth and his pitiful excitement had had time to fade throughout the day. And when he got home, he was content to find Ian cooking something that was warm and voluptuous, puffed with cheese and sauce, and fat pasta. He smiled hard and kissed Mickey’s lips firmly, and Ian glanced around the place with crossed brows. He certainly had been busy.

             The place was spotless. The windows were gleaming, every surface polished to military standard. A cinnamon aroma meddled with the scent of whatever mess Ian was pulling from the oven and poking with a fork, and the room was warm with the heat of the smells.

            “Jesus, you cleaned this place up, huh?” Ian nodded.

            “Yeah well, it wasn’t that dirty to begin with, but I figured I’d do _something._ I mean, I don’t really have much else to do.” Mickey nodded, _Noticed._ It hadn’t failed to slip his mind that Ian was unemployed, and knowing Ian, that was hardly a good sign. Ian always had a job. Mick having one, and Ian not having one didn’t read very well.

            “‘Bout that,” he started to ask, “you plan on gettin’ a job anytime soon?” Ian pushed the baking dish to the back of the stove and flicked off the oven.

            “I don’t know, they aren’t gonna take me back at the station, was the best job I had in a while too.” Mickey felt bad for him, like any good boyfriend who faked his death and returned to see him with his life in a pile on the floor, he did. _But he needs to get back on his fuckin’ feet._

            “You need a fuckin’ job man,” he stressed, tapping his hands on the imitation marble island. Ian popped sauce from his fingers onto his lips and rolled his eyes.

            “Okay, yeah, I know, I don’t need you to tell me that,” he sighed, “just let me be your little housewife until I can find something.” Mickey shook his head, dissatisfied. He was about to turn away to go change into something more comfortable, but stopped and scratched his elbow in word of his contemplation.

            “What if I actually did die?”

             The silence weighed a ton, and Ian looked on him with hurt.

            “Don’t say that,” his voice cracked, and Mickey could only be touched with a speck of sympathy.

            “Well, it’s gonna happen one day, you gonna just ruin your fuckin’ life, ‘cause I died?” Ian swallowed hard and struck fingers through hair that was growing too long.

            “I don’t—Mickey please don’t do this, I can’t handle it. I’ll stop by the station tomorrow, but, please, I just can’t handle that right now, not after everything I’ve been through.” Mickey muttered an apology and then licked and bit his lip, fear stabbing him at what he was about to ask.

            “What all went down—while I was in Mexico?” Ian had already told him about the drugs, and he vaguely knew about the car wreck, but all else was lost time and part of him was scared to hear what else he’d gotten into. Ian didn’t answer right away, scooping them both cuts of ziti and sliding it onto ceramic plates.

            “Here, watched too many damn YouTube tutorials for you to not eat it.” He handed him a plate and they sat down at the little table next to the kitchen. The breath he took was laborious, and then he began to speak.

            Starting from the beginning, when Mandy had called him, he described the numbness of knowing he was gone and the regret of not going with him. He told him about getting in a fight with his coworker, getting suspended, never going back. He talked about Brad, and the partying, and the coke, and the ecstasy, the heavy drinking and rough partying. He talked about the drag race, how he thought it’d be a good idea to go with Sergio inside the car. He talked about his coma, how he dreamt of him, and how scared he was to wake up and find out he’d been out for weeks. His arm, his head, the deaths of Sergio and Brad, all pathetic weakness, he forced himself to push aside. When he was finished his eyes were misted, and he let the heat from his meal evaporate any possible tears.

            “I’m sorry,” Mickey said first. He really had ruined him. He might’ve not put a gun to his head and told him to pack his nose with dust, but he had to take some responsibility, and listening to the tale touched him with a compunction he’d not felt before. “I should’ve let you know.” One side of Ian’s mouth pulled.

            “Well, I know now, and I’m with you, that’s all that matters, right?”

            “Yeah,” Mickey hesitated before continuing. It was a conversation that had to happen. He’d been dreading it, and he’d never been entirely sure he’d be having it, as he’d never been sure any of this would be possible in the first place, and he didn’t know how long it might last, or how much it’d all be worth. But he tried to not keep his hold on these thoughts.   _Just see where it goes from here_ , he figured and finally opened his mouth to speak, “We can’t be seen together or nothin’ you know that?—Least not anywhere I might get noticed.” The practical sight of Ian’s heart dropping broke him, and the way his face relaxed and his cheeks paled drew the blood from Mickey’s own skin.

            “I mean, yeah, guess I didn’t think about it, but I get it.”

            “You’re part a my case, look pretty sketchy: guy that looks like Mickey Milkovich hangin’ around Ian Gallagher.” Ian shook his head as though the motion could wipe it all away.

            “I know. I expected some shit like this, given this entire—situation.” Ian bit onto a noodle with fierce contempt, clear that he still felt avid anger toward the whole thing. “But I want my family to know.” Mickey’s nostrils flared with impatience.

            “Ian—”

            “No, don’t, I want them to know. I get some say too. Goddammit, Fiona and Lip knew before I did. Carl and Debbie, they’ll both be shocked, but they’ll get over it. Liam’s too little to completely understand everything.”

            “That don’t stop the fucking thin ice I’m walkin’ on. Ian, that’d just make shit worse.”

            “Look,” Ian took a sip of water from a cloudy plastic cup, “which one of us have ever gone crying to the cops? Have ever told on anyone in court, or slipped secrets to someone we weren’t supposed to? We might all be grown up now, but we’re still Southside, and we’ve all seen some shit. An ex-con gone rogue being just another crazy little thing we’ll see. My grandma was nuts, Frank’s done sorts a shady shit, including fakin’ his death,” Ian chuckled at the memory, and a flick of surprise twitched in Mickey’s face. “Y’know, V’s brother broke outta jail once. He was crazy, but if he hadn’t been, who knows? Things might’ve not been as bad as they were when that entire thing happened—but he ran off, anyways, never heard of him again—and the cops knew this guy was alive.” Mick swiveled his jaw in consideration.

            “Okay…I just,” it broke his heart to say it, but he needed to put his own safety somewhere in front too, “if you ain’t sure you’re good on all this, I can’t have ya around, Ian. I go back to jail, no way I’m comin’ out—”

            “Do you think I don’t fuckin’ know that?” Ian cut him off. “Jesus, Mick, if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” Mickey’s temperature lowered at Ian’s reassurance and they dropped it, Mickey raising another question.

            “Hey, you know anythin’ ‘bout Svet, or Yevgeny?” The way Ian’s head jerked up from his fork was nauseating, and did not bid well. “Mean last thing I ever talked to her about was getting’ a divorce.”

            “Um, well,” Mickey sensed he was doing his best to not beat around the bush and so he crashed all bluntness through the quiet apartment. “She got deported, Mick, took Yev with her, turns out all her marriages were fraudulent.” Something sunk down in Mick’s being, but he nodded all the same, looking at the table with disinterest. The little appetite he’d had vanished.

            Too much. It was too much. He may have not been able to do anything about her deportation, but he figured if he was still in Chicago, living a normal life, instead of being on the run in Mexico, he would’ve at least known what was happening with them. He supposed, that was the worst part of being in prison for a year.

            The food was shit, the loss of his identity was depressing, and the smell of men that took five minute showers was putrid, but not knowing anything about the outside world shivered him. And even the sight of his current life was burning his eyes.

            He could pretend things were normal. He could pretend that he was domesticated and living with a coffee to greet him every morning, he could play house for the rest of his days and love every minute of it. But his life would always be the same, dodges, and dips, and lies. So many _fucking_ lies, he wondered if any truth would attach to Mickey Milkovich—Nick Greer—ever again.

            He couldn’t pretend like he didn’t give a shit about Yev and Svet now, though. Things had never been ideal, but if he put all shittiness aside, they had history. His son was gone. He was never close to Yevgeny, and he’d admit he never would’ve been with the way his life had played out, but knowing he’d never see him again was as good as thinking that he was dead. And death, in recent experience, had been a rapid recurrence and entirely exhausting.

            “Fuck.” It was gurgled and itchy in his throat, and Ian held his hand, Mickey staring at it.

            “Least they got each other.” Mickey nodded. _Least they got each other._ Having someone always made things better. _And she’ll take good care of him_ , he told himself.

            He had his own mess to take care of anyways, his own holes to mend. And they were raggedy and torn, just as the entire realm of Svetlana and Yev, but there was nothing else he could console himself with other than the knowledge that they were okay, and the gift of Ian’s presence.

            He swallowed hard, still staring at Ian’s hand, warm, and blemished with jagged, fairly fresh scars, covering his own pale pink ripples. Both born in some pain felt for one another. Mickey brushed Ian’s fingers with his thumb and nodded. _Least we got each other._

 


	24. IAN

          Two weeks went by before he actually decided to head on over to the place he used to work.

          Staying at Mickey’s had only moved him to stay more. And living in their own cautionary, paranoid dome, he’d settled into an abrupt and intense domesticity that had come too fast, and left him too distracted. Bundling warmth, and relief, they’d lounge around all day, loving together, teasing one another, fucking with a frequency only comparable to that of rabbits. It was like they were teenagers again, caught in nostalgia, a jovial sleepover with hints at their adolescence that had lasted for weeks. The gaps of time spent without Mickey usually consisted of visiting with Lip, roaming Chicago streets, and trying his best to strengthen the feebleness in his arm as he cracked uncomfortable jokes with his siblings and affirmed the oddity of his current living situation. And in the middle of the time spent, crawling through the tension it’d created when he finally told the rest of his family, or rather, _showed_ the rest of his family what exactly was going on with him.

            He hadn’t known how to necessarily _tell_ them. It wasn’t something to explain delicately in a quiet family meeting at a modest dinner, as though he were a parent in the midst of a divorce. So, instead of a pretty talk at the table, he’d waited for a Saturday afternoon, when everyone was home, and simply came to the house with Mickey. Walking in slowly, side to side, he’d stood in the sunlit living room, and let yellow beams dance across a family of dropped jaws, and rattling breath.

            Debbie had cursed and grew teary, surprising both Ian and Mickey, before Mickey smiled to see her child and thumbed at the little red waves on Franny’s head. Carl had raised amused brows, laughed nervously and clapped him on the shoulder, and Liam had smiled and waved and continued to play with a broken G.I. Joe doll without much thought. And then they’d all talked until the mid evening, laughing with pain, and crying with joy. And once the novelty of the revelation had been tarnished, Fi and Lip had joined Ian and Mickey on the back steps for a smoke and strangely casual conversation, before they finally left back to the apartment, wrestling in sheets as they so often did to remind them of one anothers’ tangibility before they allowed the world to fade to black.

            And in sum, things seemed they were changing for the better. Ian hadn’t been as happy as he was now in a while, and the voices were finally getting sparser and sparser as he crawled out of the little pot of depression he’d been swimming in for so long. For the first time in a while he could feel something that was in no way melancholic.

             When he stopped by the station, his heart was a racehorse clopping against his chest, nerves shocking all confidence away. The knowing that they had every reason to be furious and no reason to be sympathetic left him in natural doubt. _My fault I waited this long to show my face again,_ he thought.

             His boots tapped like mouse pitter patter across the floor. And when Sue looked up at him, sipping coffee on her break as she sifted through a few work papers on her desk, her face was as cool and hard as a coastal rock.

             “Well, look who showed up.” Her face didn’t change when she spoke, it fell back to her papers and she continued to overview them, Ian noting the little bit of force she’d used to hold them that she hadn’t before. “The hell you been, Gallagher?” Her thumbs crinkled the pages with distaste and Ian tried at a polite smile, but the quivering of his cheeks kept it from appearing anything but weak.

            “Long story,” he let, and she tipped her head to his words.

            “Must be, disappeared for months.”

            “I know. I’m sorry. Things have been—rough.” Ian swallowed his emotions. “But, um, I just, was hoping I could talk to Rita about—y’know, getting my job back?” She shook her head.

            “Mmmmm, Rita’s not director anymore.” Ian’s forehead crinkled.

            “She’s not?”

            “Nope, she accepted a higher paying position in another state.” Ian felt sort of stupid for not seeing it. No one else used the beat up old desk except Rita, and well, Rita had been director after all.

            “So you’re director now?” He already knew the answer, and she nodded as he asked it. _If anyone was going to take Rita’s position, it would be strong, crude, wisecracking Sue._ It was a thought that came with mixed admiration, and tolled hope.

            “And if you’re wondering if I can give you back your job, I’m gonna save you a lotta time and say no.” _Dammit, Sue._ “We already got a guy for your spot, and to be frank, Ian, you don’t seem like you got your shit together. You went missing for months, it’s summer and I’ve never seen you so damn pale, ya look like you lost about thirty pounds—” 

            “Like fifteen,” he corrected, annoyed by the hyperbole. _And I gained five of ‘em back anyway._

            “Whatever, point is you don’t look in shape to be doing this anymore, at least not right now, and after everything else…I’m sorry, Ian,” her ponytail wagged when she shook her head, “but you’re not getting your job back here.”

            Ian sighed and shrugged, downplaying all disappointment. “Was worth a shot, I guess, thank you.” The muscles in his throat were thick as he walked from the building, nearly running at the rate, his soul was crying to get out of there as soon as possible.

            Despite all sadness from his now, prolonged unemployment, despite all embarrassment, she was right. He’d put on weight, but he was still too thin, he was no longer bandaged, but he was still too weak, and though he’d like not to admit it, his mental health still wasn’t where it needed to be for him to be doing any high intensity work of that kind (or his arm for that matter). He might’ve been doing better, but he still wasn’t okay.

            Stupidly, when he’d first seen Mickey, when he’d first woken up to him at his side, and made love on new, crisp, black sheets, he’d thought in vain that everything would be okay. That by some magic, things would be perfect. But they weren’t. He was still half scared of himself, and he still drank a little too much, and his arm still noodled when he overexerted his muscles.

            _Best job I ever had,_ he thought, _and best job I ever lost._

           Maybe he was just being a crybaby, but trying to pick up the pieces so far had only showed him how broken things really were. _And it’s all because of Mickey._

           He couldn’t help but to think it, even with all gratefulness. The blame game was a recurring visitor and left him bothered most of the time, fluxing anger in and out of him. He _could’ve_ asked Mickey for a job at the grocery store, if he wasn’t an entirely different person, trying to keep quiet all of the ties he was reconnecting to his past life. _Fucking Mickey._

            He loved him, sure. But, damn, in a natural light he would sometimes wonder why of all people he had become so infatuated with him. Why was it that he’d fallen so desperately in love with the grubby Milkovich kid, evolved to maniac fugitive/shape-shifter? Of course, then he’d come home, and see him smile, and watch the way his skin shined around his scarred fingers, and be forced to think of all they’d risked, all they’d fought for each other, and he was soon reminded why.

            But that didn’t mean he still wasn’t pissed that he’d left to Mexico, and faked his death without warning. Pissed that he went to jail, and pissed that— _that things just can’t be how they used to be._

            And that was just it.

            Ian was too stuck trying to see things as they had been before. Keep things within the same infatuation he’d held before. Kiss him the way he had before. But his relationship with Mickey wasn’t a life down memory lane. These lines were not parallel, the nostalgia was nothing but nostalgia. And while the ghosts of the past always visited, they were not alive, they were what they were: ghosts.

            And this was now, and that was then. And he needed to accept it, no matter how hard it’d be, otherwise there would always be a part of him still hating Mikhailo Aleksandr “Nick Greer” Milkovich for the rest of his life, and so there would linger a part of him unable to completely forgive him of the entire thing. And maybe he shouldn’t have forgiven him. But he wanted to. And so he would do his best to leave the past behind.

           

He tried for a little while to find work as he strolled through the city, but it was summer and he’d seemed to have caught the wrong week to job hunt. Places were either calming their amounts of workers for the scarcity of service that the hot months would bring, or doing their best to stay the congestion of people desperately seeking summer jobs to hold them for a little while. And while it’d briefly crossed his mind to head on over to the Fairy Tail, as it was his only other long era of employment, save working at the convenience store as a kid, he doubted the influence would be of good taste, considering the hole he’d let himself fall into the last time he’d decided to dive back into that scene.

             So, when he gave up searching, and crossed the Alibi, he stepped in quietly, sat at the bar and asked Kevin for a beer, with a little thought wiggling through his brain.

            “Hey, Ian,” Kevin started, “how’s things goin’? Heard about that car accident…and y’know, Mickey, I’m sorry, man, are you doing okay?” Ian nodded.

            “I’m fine. I just, can’t find work ‘round here. Lost my old job.” Kevin hummed with understanding. His hair had gotten thicker and fell a little past his ear when he swung himself around the bar, opening and closing cabinets as patrons ordered. “But, I was actually thinkin’ about it, and I was wonderin’ if maybe I could help you out around here, somehow, ya know? Just for a little while.” Kev inhaled and Ian tapped his fingers along the table. He’d been nervous, and feeling a bit pathetic when he’d first walked in, but now that he’d actually asked, he felt alright about it.

  * _A job’s a job._



_Yeah,_ he agreed.         

           “Well, it’s not a _bad_ idea. To be honest, since Svetlana left, we’ve kinda had to learn to run it with just two people again, wouldn’t hurt to have a third.”

           “Cool,” Ian smiled, “is it okay if I stop by tomorrow?”

           “Sure.” Kevin nodded in firm agreement before he gripped the counter and whispered with quiet care, “Are you sure you’re all right, about Mickey? I knew you both were together for a while. I mean, losing someone’s always hard.” Ian broke into a nervous smile that he knocked away with his knuckles and nodded. _Yeah it is._

            He hadn’t lost him, so he’d come to find, but in the time that he thought he had, his entire soul felt like cracking stone, breaking and tough with nothing to absorb. “Especially, after Monica. You know,” Kev pushed off the counter and tended another bar goer as he talked, “when my great aunt died, everyone was hurt. She was a sweet lady, really—except that she was really into camo hunting knives and carried a pistol everywhere she went—she was a good person, and when the day came that she kicked the bucket, people went nuts. My mom cried, my dad cried, everyone cried. Even she did.” Ian was following along until the last bit.

            “She cried?”

            “Yeah, I know, I didn’t get that either. But our uncle promised she was dead when they buried her. Must’ve just been y’know, dead body juice, or something.” Ian laughed at Kev’s bullshit and nodded his beer in the air before he drunk from it, flinching at the sudden burst of the door.

           “Ian!” Frank broke, “Ian, ma boy, you’re just the man I’m lookin’ for.” With that, Ian took down the last sip, let the beads at the bottom pat his tongue and stood to leave.

           “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kevin.” He was headed out fast, and his father followed him in a frantic mess, reeking his native scent of vodka and BO.

           “Wait, Ian, Ian!” He yelled after him. Ian wanted not to entertain whatever stupidity he’d spew, but he stopped in his tracks with his hands in jacket pockets, and faced him anyways.

           “What, Frank?” Ian bothered. _Been a while since I’ve been bothered by him, had to happen again at some point._ Frank glanced back, worried and shaking, he tensed at the two cops standing near the bar, and Ian felt a twinge of nerves bounce against his stomach as well.

            “Where is it?” Ian blinked.

           “Where is what?” Ian jutted his limbs and breath about in anxious impatience, and Frank continued to look around in his frenzy. A quaking drug addict at work, he tilted his head in indiscreet discretion, and spoke through lightly gritted teeth.

            “ _Ere-whay_ is the _eth-may_?” Ian snickered and rolled his eyes.

            “I’m not going to deal with this right now.” He was starting to walk away but Frank was still following him, just as frantic and sped up.

            “Goddammit, Ian, where is the meth?” Ian turned around again and his face wrung in suspicious distrust. His words were sharp, and full with wary defensiveness when they left his mouth.

            “I don’t know where _yours_ is. I know where _mine_ is, but fuck if I’m telling you.”

            Frank jittered around in a fluster of frustration. “No, no, no, you have to.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Because—because, I’ve looked everywhere for mine, and I can’t _fucking_ find it, I need sommuh yours, or just—someone’s goddammit, I already asked Debbie and Lip, but they already cashed theirs in. I need the actual stuff, that or—twenty thousand dollars.” Ian lolled his head  around and looked up to the white, bubbly clouds. _What’d I do to deserve this man as my father?_

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Mighta promised some radical white supremacists meth in exchange for cash,” Frank chuckled, “And ya know, I practically _begged_ them not to, but they paid me up front. And since I couldn’t find _mine_ , most likely because one of you little rats stole it and hid it away, I wasn’t able to get it back to them. So what do they do? They come to me, waving a fucking gun in my face, _demanding_ their money back and some, or the crystal by next week.” He chuckled again with beats of nervous exaggeration. “Ridiculous, am I right?”

            “And you want me to make that my problem?”

            “Well, I’m your father, that’s gotta mean something to you.”

            “No, not really,” Ian sighed, “your mess is your mess, Frank, clean it up yourself.” Frank’s face froze and he bobbed his head in angry understanding.

            “Jesus Christ,” he growled under his breath and then stormed away as Ian pulled his phone from his pocket.

_How the hell did Lip and Debs already cash theirs in_? he asked himself. Of course, he also considered that they might’ve been lying to get Frank off of their backs, but either way, the entire prospect only reminded him how criminally unhealthy it was to have a pound of meth lying around as well as a fugitive boyfriend. And so he figured he could get rid of one, with use of the other.

            “Hey,” Ian breathed into the phone. “Um, I’ve got some _stuff,_ I was wondering if maybe you or your brothers could help me out with.” Ian stressed his syllables, and the pause on Mickey’s end affirmed that he’d caught on.

            “Um, yeah, just wait ‘till I get off,” Mickey said.

            “Okay, just come by my place.”

            “I’ll be there.” They said bye and hung up.

 

“So, what, you got some drugs, or guns, or some shit you need to move?” Mickey asked as they both headed toward Ian’s door. Ian pulled his keys out and unlocked it in a swift stab of a motion.

            “Yeah, um, Monica, she sorta left us all a pound a meth ‘fore she died, and now Frank wants it, for some stupid drug deal gone wrong or whatever, and I’m not about to be clear ten thousand bucks ‘cause a that prick,” Ian said, muttering under his breath, “could use the money right about now anyway.” He popped the door open and headed inside.

            “Ten thousand?” Ian clambered up the stairs, Mickey following him inside the empty house.

            “Yeah.” He crammed himself inside his room and opened the dresser drawer where he’d hid it, shoved all the way to the back corner under the sharp edge of a drawer. He softly grunted as he forced his hand inside, scratching an elbow along splintering wood as he dragged it out, giving it a quick toss in his hand.

            “Shit, Ian,” Mickey cursed. Ian nodded.

            “Yeah, you think you could get Iggy to sell it, or something?” Mickey rolled his eyes and flicked a careless hand through the air.

            “Don’t bother askin’ questions you know the answers to.” Ian grinned, and they headed back down, stopping in silence at the sight of Fiona, standing by the kitchen sink, head down, angry tears lining her face, she banged a fist on the counter and swore.

            “Fiona,” Ian stuttered. He would’ve been nervous about the meth in his hand if her arms weren’t swollen with bruises and her eyes weren’t ringed in a blistering red that would soon turn purple. Her lip was busted, a dark slit crossing the left side, and her hair was frizzy and disheveled. His last few steps down the stairs were slow, and shy. “What happened?”

            “Ryan fucking happened. Fucking dirtbag, shoulda never started talking to that asswipe.” She spoke strained, and with self deprecation, cursing herself for whatever had happened between them.

            “Why’d he—” She slapped a hand through the air.

            “We got in a fight, I told him I didn’t want to do anything else with him after this renovation on one a his rooms. He got pissed, things got physical,” she swallowed, “that’s the short version anyway.” She reached into the freezer and slid ice from a red ice tray, wrapped it in paper towel and held it to her face.

            “What’re you gonna do?” Ian asked. He didn’t know what else to say. There was some furious thing inside of him, a wrong thing that was unhealthily violent at the sight of his sister, beaten and bruised like some abandoned dog on the street. But he didn’t know how to handle it at all.

            “You ain’t gonna stay with him, that’s for sure,” Mickey proclaimed, “watched Mandy go through that shit, ain’t ‘bouta watch you too.” She clicked her lip to the side and winced afterwards.

            “I’m not gonna fuckin’ stay with him. I liked the guy, but I ain’t that stupid, and I ain’t that scared. He’s gonna have some bruises too in the morning, trust me.” Blood was turning the napkin a rusted orange and she shrugged. “Wouldn’t ever show my face at his place again, but I gotta go back and grab my shit. Left bunch a my stuff over at his place.”

            “Well, I’ll go with you when you go, ‘case that shithead tries somethin’,” Mickey promised, a tiny grin kept Fiona’s swollen lips, and her eyes finally drew to what Ian was holding. Her disapproval was long on her beaten face.

            “Whaddya gonna do with it?” she asked.

            “Get rid of it,” Ian said.

            “Good.”

            “Yeah…I’ll see you later Fiona, and we can—talk more, hang in there.” She waved a single hand up and they left.

 

“Yeah, if I go to the right guy, I can probably get around fifteen,” Iggy spoke, tossing the plastic bag of rocks over and around, examining the quality of the chunky methamphetamine, that clattered like shards of cloudy glass.

            “Fifteen?” Ian made sure. _More than I was expecting._

“Yahp, but what’s my cut?” Iggy’s fingers were gross with sweaty dirt when he swung back his beer, nails black at the cuticle. He must’ve been the dirtiest guy in the godforsaken Milkovich family.

            “Whaddyou mean what’s your cut, you’re just handin’ over a pack a crystal to a Mexican down the street.” Mickey looked on his brother with scorn and Ian held his shoulder.

            “No, Mick, it’s only fair,” Ian sighed, looking at it. “Two thousand.”

            “Fuckin’ bullshit if I’m gettin’ two thousand…five-K.” Ian shook his head.

            “Thirty five hundred, come on man, fuck you need worth five thousand dollars?” Ian folded his elbows and tensed with aggravation. The swirls on his brain were full of impatience, and rough distraction after he’d just seen his sister, a woman who’d essentially raised him, broken down and stepped on like street trash.

            Seeing Mandy in that condition had been hard, to say the least, and bringing himself to what used to be her house only aroused the memory of Kenyatta, and how Ian had put a knife to that bastard for laying his hands on his best friend. The thought of what he’d do to Ryan if they ever came face to face was homicidal.

            “Alright, thirty five, and you not treatin’ me like I never did shit for you—eh, Joey!” Iggy’s shout was a shrill knife that cut the blaring television, and Joey cringed at the sound of it.

            “What?” he returned in his croaky voice.

            “Gotta pound a crystal to take, thinkin’ we should head up to the Kings?”

            “No, just go meet with Jason, don’t need those angry Latinos getting involved, he pays more anyway,” said Joey. Ian nodded at both of them.

            “When you think you’ll have the money?” Iggy shrugged.

            “Fuck if I know, not a lotta guys I know buy by the pound.” Ian closed his eyes and nodded as he started out the door.

            “Just, I’ll stop by when I can check up on it,” he spoke as he left, Mickey pronounced a quick and loud, “better fucking have it Iggy,” before they were gone.


	25. MICKEY

            Mickey hummed in the sterile smelling hospital waiting room and clopped his fingers on the wooden arm rest as he hummed, reciting lyrics in his head, “ _What the hell am I doin’ here?...You’re so fuckin’ special, I wish I was special, but I’m a creep..._ ” Ian started a tiny chuckle next to him, before he finally opened his mouth to break the vibrations of his tired and stressed notes.

            “Are you humming Radiohead?” He was smiling coyly and Mickey lifted one of his shoulders.

            “Yeah, they play it all the time in the store,” Mickey excused himself, though he could tell by the look on Ian’s face that the quip he’d planned to fire at him had already been generated long before he’d answered.

            “Working at Whole Foods really has turned you into a hipster.” He was starting to laugh again and Mick rolled his eyes, playfully throwing him the bird before the old psychiatrist stepped into the waiting room to call Ian’s name and they both stood to follow him.

           The time had passed over their heads like the fluttering feathers of flinches through the air, too fast and too free, and Ian’s follow up had snuck upon them with terrible quickness, and Mickey walked with him through the sour smelling hallways and into the tiny, crook of a psychiatrist office, cluttered with psychiatrist things and a desk full with books and pens of all sorts. He shook a rough hand of the gray Dr. Gordon, before he and Ian both sat in the two stiff chairs in front of him. Mickey was nearly squirming with his discomfort.  

            Ian had pleaded with him to go. Mickey hadn’t been fond of the idea, as he’d thought it too risky for him to go with him in a place that was so important, so _public_ , but as he’d considered it, and as Ian had bribed and begged him, he’d begun to doubt that anyone at the hospital would recognize him, considering how different he looked and how many people walked in and out of the place on a daily basis. And while it hadn’t taken the edge off when he’d walked through the doors, Ian had assured him and guilted him with all his might until they’d inched into the doctor’s office.

            “Sooooo,” Gordon started, viewing digital files on his computer, clicking around, and spinning in the swivel chair loosely, before he swished back to face Ian. His smile was inviting and calm. “How’re you doin’ Ian?” Ian’s grin was shy, and somehow scared, and it took Mickey aback.

            “Fine.” The wavering of his breath was a strange violin quiver and Mickey blinked his eyes left and right with consideration of his tone. _What the hell is he so nervous about_?

            “Good, good, good, how are those voices doing, gotten any better since you started back on you’rrrree—” he flipped back to his computer to read Ian’s prescription, “—Zyprexa?”

            “Voices?” Mick blurted without thinking and scoffed. “He don’t hear fuckin’ voices, he ain’t a damn schizo.” He laughed harshly, and Ian glared at him, clearly hurt, before returning his attention to the doctor. The same thin smile pursed his lips and wore his eyes out.

            “They’re better,” he answered and Mickey felt his heart sink with embarrassment. _That’s why._ His insensitivity tightened his throat and made him physically mute with shame. _Why the hell didn’t he say anything before_?

             He thought briefly to when they’d met at the baseball field, almost a month and a half ago when Ian had shouted something about “fucking voices” or the other, but he hadn’t paid it much mind until now.

            “Good, always great to hear. And your depression?” Mickey waited for Ian’s response with a blush in his cheek that had only just now arrived.

            “It’s—I mean, it’s getting better,” Ian tossed a hand up, “not gonna happen overnight I guess.”

            “Yeah, yeah, let’s hope not, be bad if it did!” The psychiatrist chuckled with heavy breath, and Mickey tensed at the sound, subconsciously brushing his fingers along Ian’s bare arm in an apologetic touch. Ian leaned into it as he continued to speak with the doctor.

            The rest of the appointment was dry and dull, and went as most appointments went. Talking of run of the mill, mundaneness that came with questions of depression, suicidal ideations, among other things, all of which Ian had been cleared on. It all went quick, and the doctor sent Ian out with another handshake and prescription, before they left his office and made their way to the hospital pharmacy.

            “Fuck, I didn’t know, Ian, you never told me,” he split the air with his apologies as soon as they left the room and Ian fidgeted and let his lips up into another feeble smile.

            “It’s fine. You’re actually the first person ta know—other than the doctor, I mean. I didn’t _want_ anyone to know. Don’t need them thinkin’ I’m crazier than I already am.” Mickey bit his bottom lip and rubbed at Ian’s lower back firmly, before they sat down at the pharmacy waiting area, not knowing how to return that.

            He’d been so absent to everything that’d gone on without him, and just as he’d thought there was nothing more to learn of what had been going on for the duration of his leave of his home city, something else was there to surprise him. The meth, he’d thought, would be the last thing, but here he was, sprung upon him with the prospect of his boyfriend of nearly six years hearing voices. He didn’t really know what he thought of it. He of course, couldn’t judge him, he’d felt like shit as soon as his brutish comment had ran from his mouth and he couldn’t take it back. And so, the only thing that really came was curiosity.

            When did it all start? What was it like? Should he tell him about the nightmares he still sometimes had of bloody dismemberment and swampy, death filled, lake-mud? Could he physically _hear_ them? Were any of them his voice? What did they say? He of course, said none of this, and let Ian to his privacy. _If he wants to tell me more about it he can._

            Mickey only sat for a second before he was up again, whispering that he was going to take a piss. He left his things with Ian before he went to the hospital urinal, cleaner than most and awkward next to a fat man with hairy arms and breath like a waking snore. He made his business extra quick and rinsed his hands fast before he came out to find his boyfriend’s face flushed with surprise at the notification on Mickey’s lock screen.

            “What?”

            “You got a text,” Ian murmured, rubbing at the line of his jaw with his thumb.

            “Yeah?” Mickey was still waving his hands around and lightly letting the remaining moisture fly from his skin. “What’s it say?” A crash of lighting crackled through the sky as Ian squinted his eyes at the phone screen. It hadn’t started raining yet, but it looked that it would soon pick up and paint the dry cement into dirty rivers.

            “Uhm, something in Spanish I’m guessing, and then gringo.” Mickey’s throat grew tight and he sat down quick and hard, falling into his seat like a rock into the ocean, as Ian handed him his phone and Mickey let his eyes grow wide. _No fucking way._ Mickey chuckled at the text. He didn’t know if it was his nerves or some excitement, but it was something and struck him with fierceness that quirked all interest and confused whatever reaction should’ve been present.

            “Portuguese,” he mumbled and began to text him back.

            “Portuguese?” Ian’s tone was lightly accusatory, and Mick answered with a casualness meant to abate the worried face Ian was making.

            “Yeah, Brazilian guy I met in Mexico, Enzo,” Mick reminded. It’d been a while since they’d had that conversation, but he spoke as though Ian would remember regardless.

            “What’s he want?” Mickey shrugged with a deep inhale, playing it off as nothing despite the brew of speculation and scared heat that came with the reading of Enzo’s message.

            “Hell if I know.” He flipped his phone into his pocket and let out a sigh of relief as the number on the slip of paper was called and Ian diverted his attention to the pharmacist and walked over to the window to pick up his pills. He’d text him more later.

 

Fiona had finally decided to go get her things from Ryan’s a few hours after Ian’s doctor appointment. Somehow waiting for her arms to un-bruise through the weeks and letting the black at her eye fade to a green-yellow splat had made her feel more confident in returning, and she’d been rather calculated in choosing a time slot in which she was positive that he wouldn’t be home, or so Mickey had listened to her when they’d talked it over and made plans to go to his place. He’d agreed to meet her there at three, she’d said he usually went to the gym within the hour and so they booked the time, and Mickey was headed on his way over there, not before dropping Ian off at the Alibi.

            His smile of hearing Ian working at the bar was twinkling and reached his eyes. He hadn’t thought of that place in forever or the memories that came with it, all the days spent yelling at Svetlana and Kevin about their whore house, the brawl with his father soon after his dramatic coming out. That place held tastes of home, and when he drove by it, he let strands of his blond hair fall in front of his face, wore reflective sunglasses and was thankful for the light tint to his windows.

            Mickey pulled up to the street across from the Alibi, and stayed near a public mailbox, motor humming. “So, you gonna meet Fiona at Ryan’s or you stoppin’ by the house first?” Ian asked, as he began to pat himself down as though he was looking for something.

            “Just headin’ over ta that address she gave me,” Mickey said. “What’re you looking for?”

            Ian grunted. “Goddamn phone, think I dropped it.” He fingered underneath the seats and finally forced it out of where it’d been locked somewhere between the seat and the door, and when his head returned to the window, he swore when he heard what was distinctly Frank’s voice:

            “Any of you seen Ian?” He hollered as he J-walked into the bar, passing right in front of Mickey’s windshield. Ian immediately ducked with a sharp “fuck” and Mickey followed suit.

            “He still askin’ for that meth?” Mickey said, his heart harming his chest with the strength of its beat. Last thing he needed was for that drunken fool to know he was alive, and regret the day he hadn’t gone through with killing him.

            “Yeah, he won’t let the fuck up…surprised those neo-Nazis haven’t killed him yet.” Ian peeked up over the window and settled in the relief that he’d swam in and out of the bar and blended into the crowded, gloomy streets. “He’s gone.” Ian relaxed in his seat and sat upright. “Ya know, I might just try and find his pound at this point if it means he’ll leave me the fuck alone.” He opened the door to the car and kept his head in for a moment to say a sweet, “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” to which Mickey nodded. Ian let the car door fall closed before he went inside, and Mickey started twisting the steering wheel and jerking the car back onto the road to meet Fiona.

           

Ryan’s apartment was aglow with the signs of money that told he was working in estate. From its pristine shine, to the pompous feel of its organization, somehow covering the abusive, unorganized personality of his, the entire living space was a realm of veneered cash, and Mickey tapped his fingers along the smoothness of a cream wall as he walked in with Fiona. She still had a key from when she was practically living there, and she was currently twirling the key ring around her finger and into her hand as she entered his bedroom, sucking on the small purple slit that still blemished her dry bottom lip.

            “Here, help me with this.” She beckoned Mickey to open an empty tote she’d brought and he held it open as she tossed balls of clothing into it, snug with a few pairs of heels. She then disappeared into the bathroom, and Mickey squatted as she maintained her time grabbing whatever the hell she was, and when she came out, the waves of her hair flipped with her head at the noise of Ryan’s computer ringing with an e-mail.

            “No. Fucking. Way.” She spoke with a demonic sounding tongue as she snooped and read it, and Mickey’s brows kissed each other.

            “What?”

            “He’s sleepin’ with Margaux, no wonder he—” She cut herself off, and instead began to furiously type on the computer, so hard that it hurt Mickey’s nails to see her stab hers into the keys. “Won’t be doing shit in December,” she promised and jabbed the enter key, igniting the whoosh that meant the letter had been sent. Mickey thought about asking what she’d mailed, but he knew by the look on her face it was in revenge and done with fury, and there would be virtually no point in asking whatever the hell it was.

            “Hey,” he started, thoughts directing back to Ian—as they so often did, “you happen to know where your crazy-ass father’s meth is?” Fiona slowly turned from the computer, arms folded with annoyance or some other emotion.

            “Huh?”

            “He won’t leave Ian alone, and he almost fuckin’ saw me and ‘im today. He’s on Ian’s ass about that meth still. Figure we just find his and give it to ‘im, we can just get him to leave us the fuck alone, considerin’ neither a us got twenty thousand we can shoot his way.” He didn’t exactly enjoy the way her face was falling at his words, subtle, and slow, an exclamation of regret. “What?” He asked, an irritated edge to his voice.

            “Um,” Fiona took in a sharp breath and rubbed at her collar bone, “I know where the stuff is.” The muscles in his face jumped.

            “You do?” The rain was finally hitting the windows.

            “Yeah…”

            “Where?”

             She’d moved from itching at her collarbone to rubbing a spot behind her neck. “About six feet under the ground.” Alarm was red on Mickey and he broke into a mad fluster of annoyance.

            “The fuck are you talking about?”

            “I buried it with Monica’s body when she died, shoved it in her casket, when no one was looking. I didn’t want anyone—I didn’t think he shoulda had it—I just—fuck, don’t worry about Frank, alright? I’ll take care of it. You got enough shit to deal with and I made bank off the Laundromat I sold last year, I can pay him off.” Mickey softened and doted on her with gratitude.

            “Thanks.” She grabbed her bag off the ground and chuckled with cynicism.

            “Well, you’re the only thing I think that makes Ian happy these days, last thing we need is Frank getting you caught.” She swallowed a ball of pain with strength and sighed. “If he lost you again, he’d probably be even more wrecked than last time.” He was about to say sorry for the hundredth time but she shook her head and spoke before he could. “Let’s go.” They left through the back door, and Fiona dropped her key on the wet cement steps leading up to his house before they trotted into their cars with their hands shielding their faces from the pecks of rain. It was the start of the first real storm he’d seen in Chicago since he’d been back, and by the looks of it, it would be anything but pretty.


	26. MICKEY

            The day was slow, and the lines were thin brambles of people all shapes and colors that strung in cords around the checkout lines. Mickey was itching to get home, and felt even a tiny ball of relief as Raquel came his way just to talk. He greeted her with a lazy half smile and the constant beep of the scanner as a dark skinned woman jingled large earrings and bounced long arms as she loaded the conveyor belt with her bags. _Need some sorta distraction ‘fore I go insane._

            “Hey, you seen Brittany?” she asked, elbows crossed with a heavy gasp of exasperating breath.

            “Fuck no, and I'd like to keep it that way. Why you lookin’ for her?” Mickey said, smiling away at the customer as he handed her her receipt and locked the register, his face fell as soon as she was on her way out, and he started closing the check out station for the evening.

            “She disappeared a little while ago, Mitchell’s lookin’ for her.” Raquel eyed him up and down, “Hey, what’re you doing tonight?”

            “Nothin’ really, life’s pretty fuckin’ boring these days.” Couldn’t have been more true. Flashes of violent past shifted past him, and in his mind, he saw arrays of graves being dug, and drug deals being made, and whores being had. And then now: a cashier at Whole Foods. _Fucking. Depressing._

            “Noticed, you always seem like you rather be dead than working here,” Raquel returned. “My friends and I are getting together tonight, you should drop by my place, have a few.” Mickey squirmed at the notion. It wasn’t that he was necessarily avoiding her, but he was creeped out by letting his fugitive self into somebody else’s house, and getting that comfortable with someone that belonged to the rest of the world and wasn’t a crooked Gallagher or Milkovich made him a tad bit uncomfortable.

            But he also knew that he needed to let himself live. He’d come all this way to be able to live freely and yet, he was hardly allowing himself. “A’ight, ‘round what time?”

            “Whenever, just come on, I’ll text ya my address.” Mickey nodded, and glanced behind her, after feeling the need to itch from their eye contact, leaning his stare toward a nice dressed business man speaking to Mickey’s squat manager. Hair like salt and pepper and a face like Kevin Spacey. Mickey slanted his head a little to get a better look at him. But no strain of his eyes would fail to change anything. It was him. Vaughn. _The fuck is he doing here_?

He wasn’t the only one to take notice of one others’ presence though, for when Vaughn had finished speaking with Mitchell and shook his hand firmly, he turned around and smirked haughtily at Mickey, already making his way on over _. Strange seein’ him sober._

            “Well, well, well, here comes the young queer I met in a bar,” he snickered to himself, “didn’t think I’d ever be seein’ you again.” Mickey’s brows grew tense. At a younger age he would’ve pounded his face in at the bold lip

            “Why the hell are you here?” Mick scoffed and crossed his arms, “Donald Trump no longer endorse your shitty business or somethin’? Now ya gotta work _here_ just to get by?” His tone was too obviously personal and Vaughn chuckled at the light idiocy.

            “No, actually the opposite.” He was shaking his keys around in a heavy pinstriped pocket, and they jingled around in loud thick, fabric swirls. “Thinkin’ a buying this place, wanted to meet the manager.”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, courtesy,” he shrugged, “current franchisee is a goat with a stick up his ass that doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.” Mick smiled slightly. “You work here?” He folded a hand out to Mickey’s apron, and Mickey pursed his lips and nodded.

            “Yeah.” _Un-fucking-fortunately, thanks for puttin’ it on blast._

            “Why?” Mickey rolled his eyes.

            “It ain’t so bad.” _Lie._

            “Yeah, sure, but you’re a smart kid, you could be doin’ something better than working at this hippie joint—you in school?” Mickey didn’t laugh and he didn’t smile, the amusement in him asking that was too much to react in any other way than irritation.

            “Look like I got money to go to school?” Vaughn nodded with understanding and gasped into his next sentence.

            “Look,” he glanced at Raquel with a flinch in his face that said he was trying to be discreet. “I can get you something better than _this_ …Here.” he pulled a business card from a gold card case and handed it to him. All smart in silvery black script, Mickey read the company name, eponymous to Vaughn’s last, “ _PIERCE_.” “Got something that might be interesting for you, it’s a little risky, not gonna lie, but I think you can handle it. Call me when you realize working here’s doin’ nothing with whatever life you think you got.” Mickey flipped the card over in his fingers, and twitched unnoticeably when Vaughn clasped his shoulder as he walked away.

            “Sugar daddy,” Raquel teased.

            “Fuck off.” She smiled and Mickey went to grab his things, keeping Vaughn’s card to the front of his wallet. He’d like not to lose it.

 

He looked to Enzo’s text again while Ian was still at the Alibi. Staring at the little popsicle stick shaped bubble on his phone with unease. The thing made his stomach swim and he didn’t know why. All Mickey had texted back was a stupid: _Enzo?_ To which Enzo had confirmed was him, wished him well, used the pleasant acronym “TTYL” and then went silent.

           Mickey had tried several other times to get further in touch, once being even so bold to call him, but it was all for naught. It’d been several weeks now and still nothing had come of it. 

            And dammit, it was driving him mad. Why’d he contact him out of nowhere? Why now? There were things too sketchy about it, and while his mind worked out that he shouldn’t have made much of a deal out of it, his gut told him something else. And though he probably could’ve stared at the conversation all day, waiting for another text bubble to pop onto the screen, he knew he’d be wasting his time, so, he locked his phone, tapped the edge of it against his lips and sat pondering for the little while before Ian came home.

            “Hey,”  Ian greeted, and slapped his things onto the kitchen island, before walking into the living room. “Watcha doin’?” Mickey glanced up at him and shook his head as if to say “nothing.” “You okay?”

            “Yeah,” Mickey said, “ I’m just wonderin’ why the hell Enzo wanted to hit me up for no good reason.” Ian sat down next to him and leaned his ankles on the edge of the coffee table.

            “He didn’t say anything else?” Mickey shook his head and sighed, picking up his keys and things, before he stood from the couch. _Stay here might kill myself thinkin’ this all through._

            “This chick at work wanted me to go to her house, think Imma stop on over and have a drink.” Ian nodded and regathered his things as well.

            “All right, I’ll come with.” They left out of the apartment and Mickey did his best to properly navigate his way to a small shabby two-story with white sidling and red brick foundation. The driveway was sprouting weeds, and the little dying bushes in front held wilting white flowers. He rang the bell and Raquel opened for them, she’d changed into a pair of PINK joggers, still keeping on the black t-shirt she’d worn at work.

             “Hey—this your boyfriend?” Mickey said yes and watched a skinny black and white cat skitter underneath a table behind her. “Come in.” She let them inside, and into a homely living room, cluttered and mismatched. The sofa was black, sticky imitation leather and the ground was made of brown carpet, shiny and plump. A TV was mounted in front of it all, and they went to stand in the loud little circle of four five other people, laughing and eating, the children were running around in the next room, Kaijah was easy to spot, with her flash of Raquel’s green eyes in a warm bronze face little springy curls that shined in the dim light. Mickey smiled, and cracked open a beer can, pouring it down his throat, a crisp coolness bit his senses.

            Being with Raquel outside of work did make him feel a bit more normal. Her taste in music was a mix of mainly nineties R&B and whatever was current, and her friends were all rugged and loose, and not one of them had so far gotten on his nerves. But he still remained mostly inclined to speak with only her against the rocking of the music, divulging themselves in stories of their pasts without sober censorship. Talking about what had already happened was usually easier than talking about whatever was to come.

            “ _All_ teenagers are insane,” Raquel burst after a black man with glasses had started on about his “crazy” childhood, though all of it was a few steps down from what Micky had experienced. Then again, wasn’t almost everything? “When I was fifteen I thought I was part of Blink-182, had my ears gauged and everything, I just got them sewn up last year.” Drink was tainting Mickey’s blood, and a bit of a drunk daze was already hazing through him, but Ian had let up a bit, and hoped that he could drive.

            “I never went through phases like that or nothin’.” Mickey shook his head and drunk from his beer can again. _Too busy wondering how to pay the bills that month._

            “Yeah right, come on, Nick, you gotta have something!” Raquel insisted.

            “No, well actually—” he thought on it, “—a’ight I was sorta like a wanna be Neo-Nazi if that counts for somethin’,” Mickey blurted and helped himself to another beer. “I mean I had posters and shit, fuckin’ swastikas, not that it was that fuckin’ serious.” Raquel laughed. She was more sober than he was.

            “A gay Neo-Nazi, with a black friend, if this was The Third Reich, we’d all be _dead_.” Mickey laughed, shaking his head at the memory.

            “Well, then I wasn’t gay,” Mickey joked.

            “Then you didn’t _think_ you were gay,” Ian corrected. Mickey laughed with a nod.

            “You two knew each other as teenagers?” She pointed to both of them, and Mickey watched Ian grow uncomfortable, though in his condition he couldn’t wonder why.

            “Yeah, we, uh,” Ian stuttered. Mickey’s eyelids were heavy. “We met when he was up here for the summer, once.” Mickey bust out laughing, and Ian looked to him as though he were an errant child scratching his desk in a schoolroom.

            “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked. Things were fuzzy, his head was encased in metal and his entire essence was gelatinous.

            “He’s fucked up.” Raquel smiled and started talking again with a strange look to her eye at drunken Mickey. If he weren’t so intoxicated he might’ve thought she looked suspicious.

 

Mickey’s head was ringing with pain the next day, although he’d already downed a couple of Tylenol. His head was leant up against the side of the building and he let out bouts of smoke from his lungs, as Raquel came out to join him. She popped a cigarette into her mouth, and Mickey lit it, and she inhaled, smoke draining from her nose soon after. The sky was bright, and in his face, and ran warm beams of light over his muscles. There was a calm silence around them for a while before she rammed her confession between it all.

            “I’m a hooker,” Mickey only changed the way he looked to her and swallowed. _No shit_? He couldn’t say it though, he didn’t really have anything to say but some stupid exasperated swear at the workings of the women of Chicago, and so he kept his mouth shut, and looked back in front of him at nothing, disappointed in some light.“Working here—being a single mother, it’s not enough to keep me on my feet.” He sighed.

            “Why the hell are you telling me this?” His voice was monotone and she smiled as though she was waiting for him to ask.

            “So you have some collateral when I ask where your really from.” His brows raised up and he pushed at his bottom lip with his tongue. “Nick, you got one of the most obvious Chicago accents in the world, and your redheaded boyfriend got all flustered when he started talking about ya. What’s up with you?” Mickey burned his lungs with the cigarette and rubbed at his jaw nervously. “Seriously, where did you _come_ from?”

            “Colorado,” he affirmed, a slight threat in his throat.

            “Bullshit.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the crowded ashtray, said:

            “My break’s over,” and went back inside.


	27. IAN

            “Hey, uh, my name’s Ian, my um, my brother suggested I come with him here, so, yeah—I did, wouldn’t really call myself an alcoholic, but I know I haven’t been only having the occasional drink, so, yeah…” Ian sat down as soon as he was finished speaking, more of a loud mumble, and looked to Lip. He’d finally convinced Ian to come. _Everybody in AA seems to think everyone should be in AA_ , he thought. As, Lip had been dropping hints and vocal nudges whenever they hung out, tiny suggestions for Ian to come along, somewhere along the way Ian had finally surrendered and now he sat in the third and final row of chairs before the small podium set at the front.

            The crank of other stories, and statistics, and sober days accounted for were murmured by other rings of people for most of the meeting, meanwhile Ian squirmed a bit in his chair at the discomfort some of them caused. Maybe he should’ve expected it, but he hadn’t been ready for the amount of intimacy some of them shared, the ways that they opened up. And while it hadn’t been as bad as he thought it would’ve been, he hadn’t the slightest idea as to how Lip could withstand the procedure on a regular basis.

            “Hey, they get really religious a little later on, just heads up, some people sound more cultish than others, but most of them are just bullshitting it anyways,” Lip whispered inside a smile, Ian grinned back. He was still basking in the joy of having his brother back. Things were finally good between them again.

            The last few months had put them against each other, each disapproving of how the other handled something. Lip not approving of Ian’s partying, Ian loathing his nosiness. But it all had faded away.  Overnight almost, he couldn’t put his finger _exactly_ on the light switch that had turned their relationship back to normal, but he figured it was probably near the moment when they’d all come to his rescue after assuming some stupid thought of suicide on his part. Yes, since then things were alright.

            He’d known if before, and he knew so now, that things were simply the best they could be with Mickey’s inclusion. Even with all risk. Even with the pound of his heart at Mickey’s coworker’s house when she asked about their childhood, it all was worth keeping him at his side. Things were only sorted with love, or at least, that was all Ian could taste. All he chose to taste.

            And though sitting in AA did say something about the path he’d traveled, volumes of all he’d done to get there, he could still be proud in knowing he was at least doing something more to help himself. He wasn’t going to stop drinking, he was working at the Alibi for Christ’s sake and he didn’t think he could take yet another change in his lifestyle, but he figured, maybe seeing and hearing some hardcore alcoholic stories might scare him enough to stop drinking, that along with his wretched father had to have an awesome effect.

            “And let’s stand for another prayer, before we are on our way,” the meeting conductor said, and all members rose. Standing straight, some tilted their heads down, and Ian followed suit, doing his best to blend, though he could tell Lip wanted to laugh at his incredulous gaze. “We are going to know new freedom and new happiness…We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves…They will always materialize if we work for them.” A mutter of “amens” were the last noises before footsteps leading out of the door, and he and Lip trotted down the little steps of cement and started down the sidewalk; cigarettes in mouths, and smoke in lungs.

            “So, what’s the rest a your day lookin’ like?” Ian asked. Ash from the cigarette hit the air, and the flickering end glowed brighter through the mid temperature _. Late summer_. Molding breezes of fall with still heat, it all transitioned in clear shades. And the way time had changed things was almost scary. It seemed the events of recent hadn’t killed the time, but that time had killed all parts of them, and Ian didn’t know why, but even with a rather clean life he still felt as though he was dying a little bit.

            “Ah, probably just go home after work, signed up for online college, prolly start on that.” Ian’s smile was genuine and white and calm.

            “No shit?”

            “Yeah.” Lip nodded the smoke from his mouth away and Ian sighed.

            “Damn. I need to do somethin’, don’t plan on working with Kev and V for the rest of my life.” _Seriously._ He may have said it in passing, but he really needed to find a job, a _real_ job, he needed a _career_ , as people so often said. He would like his old job back, he still thought of it sometimes, but that was old news and no good to consider.

            “What’re you about to go do?” Lip asked. Ian shrugged with some shyness that only embarrassed him more.

            “Just, go to the bar for a little, then go home and freshen up,” he sighed, nervous to say so, “taking Mickey on a date.” The tiny drops of fear the words landed on his skin may have been pathetic, but they were there nonetheless. He’d never thought the day would come, after all. _Fear of the unknown._ When he was eighteen, the two had stumbled through the street drunkenly singing, and Ian had burst with the epiphany that they should go out, but due to a certain split ended blond that’d invited the police inside Ian’s home, they’d never even made it to the bathroom to wash their quarreled blood off their faces.

            “Really?” Lip asked with a laugh as though Ian had just told the funniest joke ever. “Like to see Mickey on a date, be like watching a crocodile do ballet.” Ian rolled his eyes, but didn’t drag it any further. It made him nervous without Lip teasing him. He wanted it to be a surprise, a try at something special. And he was only hoping with some teenager’s anxiety that Mickey would be glad when Ian greeted him when he came home and with a kiss, and two tickets to a local concert. Neither of them were particularly romantic, and he didn’t plan on letting themselves be fairies in a little land of music, but he figured that it would be crowded and the sound would shut everything else away, and they could kiss in the dark and no one would care.

            “How’s things with Sierra?” Ian shifted the spotlight onto Lip, and Lip seemed suddenly unrest, lips twitching, thumbs twiddling, his drags on his cigarette were not as natural as they usually were.

            “They’re fine, stayin’ at her place most days.” His tone took Ian aback, forceful and hard, as though the words were stuck on his tongue and they’d had to fight their way up and out.

            “I’m sure, you sound thrilled.” Lip nodded to Ian’s sarcasm as though it was all in earnest. “What is it?”

            “It’s just uh,” Lip swallowed, “think I’m—I might be in love with her.” _Oh God._  Ian softened and sighed and slapped his brother’s back.

            “Well act a little more excited, and try to not do anything too stupid for her.” Lip snickered at that.

            “Nothing stupid like fake my death so I don’t get thrown in prison?” Ian chuckled and let his arm fall from near Lip’s shoulders.

            “Something like that.”

 

“Those fucking frat brothers come there one more time I’m gonna knock their skulls together and bury them back behind the building,” Mickey fired as he locked the door, and dropped his coat and keys on the couch, he collapsed into the sofa and Ian chuckled.

            “Yeah?”

            “Come in like it’s a fucking parade, and then make huge fucking mess in the produce aisle. Brittany fucking loves it though, dumb kid.” Ian came to stand behind him and scratch his fingers through Mickey’s hair, his roots were showing. _Gonna have to do something about that soon_.

            “Well, maybe you should just calm down, alright, I got some concert tickets, thought we could go and unwind. It’s Friday night, let loose a little.” When Ian stopped his strokes through his hair, Mick’s regular scowl was still splattered on his face.

            “What?” He cried and threw up a hand from his forehead, tired and aggravated as he was. Ian sat down next to him.

            “I got tickets. I know, last time we talked about going on a date, I wanted to go out to eat, but I thought this’d be more fun.” Ian shrugged as though it was nothing even though a twinge of nerves still tickled his belly, and the breath of the feeling left in a pleasurable pop when he saw Mickey’s face was sifted happiness, refined by anger and hardness, but with the same amount of love nothing could possibly rid it of.

             Looking into Mickey’s eyes was like staring into something more brilliant than whatever poetry could be made to describe them. Taking away the color, removing the shine, not including any cliché likeness to the ocean, or the sky, or how closely they resembled twinkling sapphire, when he looked into them, and when Mickey looked back, there was something there that Ian had only now realized, he’d only seen when Mickey looked to him. A look meant specifically for Ian.

            It was almost soft, but not quite, something far from whatever possible hardness laced his usual looks. It was everything chaotic, a branch of beauty, twinkling lust, and pounds of whatever word was stronger than love. All meddled into one thing that was even harder to find. Peace.

            Through all darkness, calamity, destruction of what could’ve been something he would’ve called normal, somehow, Ian could see in Mickey’s eyes, that he was so lucky to be the only one who rested him with it. And Ian knew more than he knew anything else that the feeling was mutual. Love might’ve made him stupid, but this ignorance was bliss.

            “Okay,” Mickey lightly laughed, and kissed him before they started out.

            Mickey had only taken a second to change his button up to a plain black shirt with three quarter length sleeves, and drove to the little venue.

            A brown building with neon lights that killed the dark around it settled into the parking lot, and when they went in, the small crowd around the stage was a roar. No more than five hundred people, all standing, drinks in some hands, lights in others. The room smelled of weed and sweat and neither of them cared.

            It was a mere murmur of people for a while, until the pitch of the bass crashed into the room and shouts and whistles cried around the stage and the front man started at an obnoxious addressing of the audience.

           The band was only well known throughout Chicago, and Ian didn’t remember the name of it, but the sounds they played were low bells, and high chimes, and ranged from something to sway along to, to head banging, raw, jumping noise. And while Ian was enjoying himself, pumping his fist in the air, and letting his head move along to the thrums and drums, Mickey was somewhere else.

            He _seemed_ in tune, keeping up with the crowd, mellowing into both the quick and the calm noises, but there was a tension in him that Ian knew too well. “Are you okay!” Ian screamed, holding onto the line of Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey seemed timid at his touch, startled almost, a waking sample of how he so often jerked awake.

            “I’m fine!” he screamed back and the volume of the venue crawled over them.

            “Are you sure!” Ian yelled it more into his shoulder as to not further strain his voice and Mickey answered with the tone that let him say “leave me alone” without saying “leave me alone.”

            “Yes!” Ian nodded, and didn’t say anything else. It was hard to talk with Mickey’s tongue shoved down his throat the next minute. His scarred fingers gripped the back of his neck and Ian pushed into it, as Mickey pulled at him, gripping his shirt, and running his fingers through the long blond hair that ran across his head. And then when the force of breath brought them apart, things swirled back down and flashed back up when a toned man in stripes rammed his elbow into Mickey’s back. _Christ._

            “Eh! Watch where the fuck you’re going prick!” Mickey belted. The guy took immediate notice and made some face Ian hoped was not supposed to be intimidating, for if so was the case, it completed nothing close to its purpose.

            “Fuck you!” His voice screeched over the music. Ian sighed, if only the man had been aware of the innate nature of his boyfriend.

            “Yeah? Fuck _you_! If you know what’s good for you, you’d step the _fuck_ back right now!” Mickey was at the point of no return when the guy got in his face again, and all Ian could do was look at the top of the building, wish things had just been able to be nice for once, before he helped Mickey not get his ass beat.

            Mickey’s hands were always dirty, and when the fight started, the regret on the man’s face was clear. His fist dug into his skin, and the guy tried his grasp at Mickey’s hair, a towering lanky man with fierce biceps was about to get in between them, close to ripping Mickey off, when Ian finally interjected. Pounding on the back of the guy, and distracting his attention away from Mickey and onto Ian, he much bigger than he was, and so Ian let himself to stronger tactics than the basic punch. He jumped on the man’s back and pulled him to the ground with the fierceness that rang through his limbs. Any other approach, and he might’ve gotten squashed by his tall feet, and once they were on the ground together, the people around could already see that Ian was playing the weakened ginger with a wavering hand, and they lifted the guy off of him and started to beat him just as hard, if not harder than Ian had been.

            Soon enough, the little arena had transformed into a riot that sparkled through the building. Girls were shoving one another to the ground and ripping each other’s hair from their scalp, smearing false eyelashes across one anothers’ face, and popping breasts out of their shirts in a jiggling mess trying to fling one another off. Men were tackling each other to the ground, and security brushed their way through finally when a girl’s earring was smeared in blood on the floor…along with a piece of her ear. But Ian and Mickey were already running out when they intervened.

            Ian was ahead and holding onto the keys, he jumped in the car, started it fast, and as soon as Mickey slammed the passenger seat shut, he was driving away. They were always running away from something, it seemed. But now it didn’t feel like running, it just felt like living, and Ian and Mickey were laughing maniacally as he sped away from the venue, blood busted lip, and Mickey with popped ear, blood tearing from the canal. Still, considering most other fights they’d been in, the way they’d left this one was rather clean.

            “Fuck,” Mickey breathed, once Ian parked at the high school. He hadn’t planned on going afterwards, but it seemed like the only place they had left to be sweetly alone and take date night to would be there. It always was the perfect place to go, and always where they went when they wanted to be alone, but they didn’t want to be home. They sat for a moment in silence before they stumbled out of the car, Ian slugging his arm around Mickey’s neck, and dragging him toward the field. Mickey was laughing without care, before he spit a bit of blood into the grass, and caught his breath.

            They fell into the grass like drunk lovers and still laughed at nothing until all brashness died, and came to calm. _Kids again._ That’s how it felt. Like they were kids again, and Ian couldn’t be more grateful. They’d been needing a night like this. A time like this without care. A time that included peace. Crickets chirping in the dark, the moon gold and waning in the sky, stars scattered like perfect white glitter across a mystic sea, he couldn’t have prayed for anything so beautiful.

            “Why do we always end up here?” Mickey exclaimed. Ian cackled.

            “Well, we had to,” he propped himself onto his elbows, “you see, we went somewhere in public, made out, got into a fight, it’s the last part of the pattern.” They were both laughing still, the same crazy, free bellows they’d let out it the car. Joker and Quinn happiness.

            “Yeah, guess things ain’t really changed that much, have they?” They both turned to look at one another, smiling.

            “Fuck, I love you,” Ian said, stupidest grin on his face. He hadn’t meant to be dramatic, but it was all that had come. All that could come. The only thing he could think in these strangely romantic moments. Yes, neither of them were or had ever been prettily romantic in the traditional sense, but there was something romantic about the times they laid bleeding and then banging at the baseball field when it came to them. “Sorry, I don’t’ tell you enough.”

            “Same, man,” Mickey said. Ian shook his head at that. _Leave it to Mickey to say “same” to “I love you.”_

            He kissed him after that, not like he did at the concert, and not like he did at the apartment. He kissed him as he would’ve in bed, and lead them slowly down that road with more tantalizing, fire touches and rough thumbs that cradled one anothers’ jaw. The love made was sentimental, and careless, and full with life, and something Ian had finally found. Peace.

            The night had been perfect. From the reckless concert, and local band, to the brawl that soon followed, and the blood shared when they kissed on the grass, it was just: perfect. Ian had promised himself he would stop chasing the past, but the night had been just as sweet, and not a single voice had peeped through his mind to ruin it either. It all was film and dream like, and he wished it wouldn’t ever end.

            “What do you wanna do now?” Ian asked, making sure his fly was up as they walked back to the Mercedes. Mickey shrugged.

            “I dunno. Shit, just chill, had enough of tonight.” Ian nodded, though he felt like he could’ve taken on the world with Mickey at his side.

            “Fair enough.”

            It was raining, but it was warm, and when they stopped in the parking lot, both of their eyes swayed to the left to admire some pretty yellow Ferrari with black stripes on the sides. All lost in the atmosphere of things. They were high on each other, and every drop of rain was sugar, every color like smooth skin, and when they touched one another, they could almost feel the brink of sexual ecstasy on the mere tip of their fingers.

            “Woah, it got cold in here,” Ian said thoughtlessly at their entrance of the apartment. Mickey nodded and they both went to wash the blood from their faces in the bathroom, Mickey wincing as he cleaned around his ear, and Ian dabbed at his lips. Now that all magic of the night was fading, the stallions had turned back into hood rats, and the only thing they could feel was the blood on themselves, and the headaches coming through them. Jumping slightly at the force of a knock at the door, Ian flicked his head at the rest of the apartment and looked back at Mickey. “Who the hell is that?”

            “Fuck if I know.” Ian was pinched with something annoyed and on guard all at once. It wasn’t like for them to get guests at almost midnight. By some pestering it could’ve very well been Fiona or Lip, but there was a weight when Ian said that he would get it and charged to open the door. Peeling back the thick wood with caution, he stared back at a stranger.

            His eyes were fierce gold and predatory, skin toasted brown, warm and bronzy like summer itself. The little black stubble at his jaw shined and black roots broke the strange look of red from his hair. And the way he looked at Ian, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, about the same height, but seeming so much taller, sent spiders to tickle the back of Ian’s neck.

            “Hmph,” the man said, “you’re hair is redder than I thought it would be.”


	28. MICKEY

            Mickey’s face hadn’t ever been whiter than it was now. His eyes were dark with surprise, his lips confused as the name left him, “Enzo?” He took a deep breath, barely pushing past his teeth, something large and heavy was caught somewhere between his lungs and his heart and everything seemed invulnerably massive. Shock, surprise and the nervousness of having the guy he’d spent an intense semiannual affair with in his apartment with his longtime boyfriend corded around his neck, and all speech came out harsh and choked. “The fuck are you doing here?”

            Enzo smiled sweetly, clearly sensing the bit of hidden excited appall that licked Mickey’s features as he pushed past Ian gently and closed the door. Still dragging on his smoke, he made his way into the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge. Ian’s face was torn with annoyance and disbelief and Mickey’s chest was still tight with panic. “I thought you was goin’ back to Brazil?” Enzo cracked open the can and took a sip, smiling into it before he put out his cigarette on the side of it and threw it away. _Just as fucking full of himself,_ Mickey wanted to smile but he grimaced instead.

            “You see, I did, but um—Marcello is dead and I ran into a few people I was not expecting to see, so yes, I could not stay there, and I cannot go back to Mexico after, _caralho._ ” He said all this quick and with nearly intelligible speed. Though the first part was clean cut and Mickey immediately was hit with, not the fellow grievances that came with a friend, but some intuitive fear that he was here as part of a recoiling mourning that he could certainly relate to.

            “Marcello’s _dead_?” Mickey exclaimed, Enzo moved around like it was nothing, but the look in his eyes was fierce with hidden emotion.

            “Yes,” a sigh, “he killed himself…I found him dead with flies crawling on his skin and a gun in his hand, so, _porra_.” His fingers were tapping furiously across the can and then he stopped, lifted his eyes from the drink, and spread his same arrogant smile back onto his face. “And then they somehow found me in Brazil, followed my trail from Mexico, so I ran.”

            “And you thought it’d be a good fuckin’ idea to come here?” Mickey said, feigning defensiveness. A part of him couldn’t help to be a bit happy that he’d been the one he’d fled to, but he dared not show it. Not around Ian.

            “Because I needed somewhere else to go, and well—I wanted to see you.” _Just what I need._ In a brief moment the room was quiet and scratchy, and the only noise was the distant breeze that blew from a cracked window and the buzzing of a housefly that had made its way in through the opening. And Mickey, barely knowing what to say and doing his best to remain his equilibrium around Ian’s expressionless face and Enzo’s sly grin, finally cut the noise with a question that, knowing Enzo, may have had a rather sensitive answer.

            “What do you want from me?” The fly was now trapped in a light fixture, and Enzo was staring at it as he said:

            “A place to stay, only for a little while.”

             Mickey ran his tongue over his molars and rubbed the top of his forehead, two fugitives in the same apartment somehow didn’t seem like a good idea. One of them was wanted through multiple countries, his whereabouts unknown, the chances they’d find him if he only made the wrong move, or crossed the wrong part of town were unquestionably high, and so made the chances of Mickey’s own discovery exponentially large.

            “You got money man, why can’t you just stay in a fuckin’ hotel?” Enzo sighed, eyes closed, he set his drink down and licked his lips. Emotional, nervous, Enzo was showing all the things Mickey had seldom seen, and a small sense of alarm crept up his scalp. A story was coming, and there was no way in hell it was going to be good.

            “When I get back to Brazil, Mikhailo, the first thing I did was talk to my uncle. He’s very angry at me, I did not tell him where I was, and he heard about well, what happened to Fidel—the man you met with me in Mexico—he knew I was the one to do it and he was so angry. Even though he was a—I do not know even know the word for him…in Portuguese I do not even know the word for him, but he was extremely angry. Like I say, even though he was terrible, negotiated in bad ways, he was very helpful, he could do things that was hard for us, things that we could not do so easy on our own, so you see why he was very upset. So my uncle said he wasn’t going to work with me anymore, he cut me off, he finally just said that he wanted no more of my assistance and made me leave. And then of course, before I go, I asked about Marcello, and my uncle says he has not seen him. And so I just tell him ‘ _obrigado_ ’, go home and almost throw up from the smell. I do not know how long he was dead, and how long the neighbors had been complaining about it, but he was,” a forced swallow, “rotting when I go back. The heat there and—sorry, I cannot—I go on.

            “A few years ago, I did not tell you any of this, but I had a sort of disagreement with a large group of men from Chile. I sold them about four million American dollars worth of cocaine that I didn’t exactly have—at the time I needed the money, and I knew I was just going to run away after, so I didn’t bother getting anything to them. They found me, push me around a little bit and ask, you know, for around ten million dollars or otherwise—they made it very clear they’d kill me, so I gave them all my cars, what I got from the hotel, and all I have left is some clothes and my Ferrari, and after I saw that they tracked me back to Brazil, I texted the number I gave you, tracked your phone and came here as fast as I could, and prayed to _Jesus_ that you would take me in, just for a little while, I swear.”

            Mickey could hardly imagine the pain of discovering his dead lover whilst trying to fend off international police and run all the way to the United States from South America, but there was one flaw in his financial insecurity that he simply could not ignore. “If that Ferrari outside is yours, why the fuck don’t you sell it? That thing’s gotta be at least half a mil.”

            “Because I do not want to.” Enzo spoke as though he was dismissing a child and Mickey’s words were worthless.

            “Why the _fuck_ not?”

            “Because Marcello got it for my twenty fifth birthday and it’s all I have left to remember him by.” There came the near silence, filled only by the constant buzzes the fly was swirling around inside the light. _Not like I can say much to that, and it’s just for a ‘little while’ right?_

            “How long’s a little while?”

            “Few weeks, maybe months, no longer than three, _eu_ _prometo_ —I promise.” Mickey swallowed his heart and already started to nod. He was hoping his “little while” would only be a couple days, but he could only figure that it was what it was and allow him to stay. There was no saying no. After all he’d done for him, the prospect was plainly impossible. All the risk, all the work, all the cash, without it all Mickey would still be nothing in Mexico, and the painting of being old and gray and alone on the beach crossed his mind once more, and so did the fact that  because of Enzo it was still just a painting.

            “All right.” Enzo’s face shattered with another beaming grin.

            “ _Obrigado_ , Mickey, thank you.” He brought him in for a heavy hug, and Mickey cringed and returned it stiffly. Ian’s silence had been scary enough without Enzo touching him, and Enzo was already heading back out before Mickey could grow anymore pleasantly annoyed by his presence.

            “Where are you going?”

            “I have something else to take care of first, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” And then he left. He left, and all that was left in the room was he and Ian’s harsh glare and the buzz-buzz of the fly. Shiny and sharp as steel, Ian’s eyes hadn’t ever been as murderous as they were now.

            “Ian, fuck, it’s just a couple months.”

            “Yeah,” Ian laughed, “couple months with some Spanish fugitive you used to fuck.”

            “He’s Brazilian.” He didn’t know why he said it, maybe he thought it would lighten the mood, but it didn’t and once it was out of his mouth he regretted saying that and not denying any relationship between them.

            “Fuck off,” Ian swore.

            “Look,” Mickey patted his hands through the air, “it wadn’t like that.”

            “You don’t expect me to believe you were just friends!” Ian spoke, something steaming and eerily pissed off touched his tone and the Cheshire smile that fixed him was full of hate and disapproval.

            “No—look, Ian, I told you, it wasn’t like that.”

            “Then how was it?”

            “We were just I dunno—look that’s all it was.”

            “You don’t love him?”

            “Fuck no,” Ian only calmed an inch, and Mickey rubbed a hand over the rough of his own stubble, exasperated and full of worn muscles. “Ian, look, it’s getting fuckin’ late, can we just check in and save this for tomorrow?”

            “No,” Ian’s scoff was a winner, “some guy just comes in, thick fuckin’ accent, walking around like he’s Enrique fucking Iglesias, owning the place, gives some sob story and then you say he can stay for some months so the police can come find him and you—”

            “ _Fuck_ Ian,” Mick interrupted, “you don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about, alright? Don’t you fucking get it? I wouldn’t be _here_ if it wadn’t for him. I wouldn’t be in Chicago, I wouldn’t be with you, I’d be in Mexico, probably already back in the joint, or pissing my way through some more drug deals so I can make twenty bucks a week to live in a shitty motel for the rest of my life. I owe him one, and letting him stay here is probably the least I can fucking do.” _Buzz, buzz, buzzzzz_. The fly finally escaped and was headed back outside the window, and Ian’s head was down, defeated and all that ran through Mickey was impatience. He couldn’t win, he just couldn’t. _Things were fuckin’ A-one too._

            “Okay, I’m sorry,” Ian shrugged, consoling himself with nonchalance, “just a couple months.” Mickey nodded.

            “Yeah, now, come on, let’s go to bed, had enough of today.” And so, Mickey put his arm around Ian’s shoulders and they went to bed.


	29. IAN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long...

            “Hey,” Ian said to Lip. The sidewalk they were taking to the train station was breezed with subtle orange leaves dancing around at their ankles and pulling and pushing from the slight moisture of the streets. Just a few more weeks and all the greenery above them would be just as crinkled.

            And as the first week had blown by of Enzo staying with them, Ian had at once made his move to spend some time in somebody else’s company that wasn’t Kevin, V, Enzo, or Mickey. For, even Mickey’s presence was striking him with bolts of annoyance at the moment, simply because he’d been generous enough to let that foreign prick into his apartment for an extensive period of time. He understood that he’d done everything to get Mickey here, and yes, he got that Mickey was indebted to the guy or whatever, but it still gave him an edge he otherwise would’ve ignored had Enzo not been, well, tall, handsome, redheaded and one of Mickey’s ex…boyfriends? He didn’t know whatever their relationship’s classification was (if it had one) but the thought didn’t sit well within him.

            “Hey,” Ian said again and licked his lips, “how would you feel if you’re girlfriend’s ex just moved in with you?” It was out of nowhere, and Ian’s entire situation was unbelievably circumstantial, but he had a need for another opinion. He’d had a passing thought to speak to Trevor about the thing, but with Lip he wouldn’t have a need to weave around whom his boyfriend was or Mickey’s mortal status.

            “Mickey’s ex moved in with you?” Lip was confused and almost alarmed and Ian ran a cigarette through his fingers and plucked it between his lips.

            “Something like that,” he said with the strain of smoke in his lungs that he let out fast and hard. “This guy that helped him out, and helped him get here I guess, he’s staying with us for a little while, and yeah, they were banging it out while they were in Mexico…I mean, yeah.”

            “He uh—he look good?” Lip asked, borrowing Ian’s lighter to light himself cigarette.

            “Very,” Ian strained.

            “Well, you trust Mickey enough not to worry?”

            The question seemed a test on Lip’s tongue and Ian’s ears, and he hardly had the mind to think of an answer. _Guess that means I know the answer._ He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust any of it. He definitely didn’t trust that Enzo guy, and a shame to say, he wasn’t particularly sure if he trusted Mickey much either. Mickey had never cheated on him before, at least, not with a man. Not that he knew of. But they didn’t exactly know each other as well as they’d thought they had recently had they?

            “I don’t know. Guess I should.”

            “But ya only can so much, yeah?” Lip poked his light through the air in a force of his question, and for a minute Ian was distracted by the trickles of ash that flew from its stone end.

            “Yeah,” he groaned.

            “I don’t know, dude, think I’d keep my girl on a leash if some dickhead she used to bang was crashing at our place.” They’d reached the steps to the train station and they headed up two and two, Lip still speaking as they ascended. “Like, ya know, people do shit even if they don’t wanna and then they regret it later. Not sayin’ Mickey’s gonna end up doing somthin’ he doesn’t mean to, but, I dunno, don’t think I’d be lounging around with my brother all the time knowing they’re home alone together.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Ian agreed, stepping onto the rigid metal floor of the L train. “But, Mickey’s at work right now anyways.” Lip raised an eyebrow and Ian couldn’t tell if he was being serious or teasing, but what he said gave him a strong tweaker’s itch.

            “You’re sure that’s where he’s at?”

             Ian was thinking with his tongue on his teeth, and swollen with immediate discomfort. He trusted Mickey, well he trusted him enough…right? _He wouldn’t…no, no, no._ Mickey had gone through a huge hall of pain and bullshit just to make it back to a place where the police knew his family like the back of their hands just to be with Ian. But all natural sense within him otherwise pointed that Enzo was an attractive guy, and Mickey had been with him before, and the look of amused surprise, hidden happiness when he’d come inside at the end of their date spoke about anything and everything that wasn’t trust.

            “You gotta point,” Ian muttered, sudden thought bonking his head. “You sell that meth?” He spoke not too soft. No one could really say much if they did hear, and so he lazily bothered with those manners and  Lip nodded.

            “Yep, ol’ pot dealer I knew in college had some connections. You?”

            Ian was rubbing a finger along the soft flesh of his lips, thinking. “I don’t know for sure yet,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Lip and the tracks screamed as the train came to a halt. The doors sighing open, Ian made his way off, and Lip looked to him with strange uncertainty.

            “Why you getting off now?” Lip asked. They were supposed to be going back to the Gallagher house. Ian hadn’t been there in a fair while, and he’d wanted to see Fiona and Debbie, and of course Carl, before he had to go back to school, but right now he’d let that wait.

            “Whole Foods is down the street from here.” Lip chuckled and said alright and then Ian left the precious comfort of a speeding train and walked onto the streets that lead to where Mickey was, or so he hoped.

            The wind was blowing chips of leaves across his face as he went to the store. He felt shitty for spying on him, but he swore to himself it’d be a onetime thing. He’d just go, make sure Mickey was there and then he would leave, he’d turn right back around and go home, and later feel sad and guilty for not being able to trust him, he promised himself this

            The building smelled of its usual lilac and ammonia, and Ian was doing his best to remain inconspicuous as he strolled through the store, flipping around earthen soaps and migrating to the produce section as he glanced around for Mickey, regretting not wearing a jacket with a hood on it, while pretending to test the softness of peaches on a stand next to a black haired hipster eying him with judgment. He was pleasuring himself with his idea of being discreet, but his focuses were too centered on this and not where Mickey was, and before he could say anything, Mickey’s hand was fiercely on his shoulder.

           He pulled Ian around and looked upon him with eyes on fire and anger lacing his every pore. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He shouted in that soft whispering way people do that is suspiciously unsuspicious. “Trying to get me fucking arrested?” Ian pushed him off and grunted. He wasn’t as embarrassed as he’d thought he’d be.

            “No.” He spoke as though he was trying to spit mud out of his mouth. “I was making sure you were _here_ , and not somewhere else with that Brazilian fuckhead.” Mickey groaned, demeanor falling in exasperated frustration.

            “Ian, are you fucking kidding me? I told you ten times now it’s not—he’s gonna be here for a few more weeks at best and then he’ll be gone. Jesus, I’m not fucking him anymore, try to get that through your thick fucking skull alright? I wouldn’t have gone through all the shit I went through just to get here, if it meant I was gonna throw it all away to be with some dude I knew for a couple months in Mexico. Now, be wherever you gotta be and let me work without you on my back. Please?”

            Ian nodded, knots in his throat, essentially quieted by all thoughts he’d already processed. Whatever happened between them was over. He wouldn’t have come all this way to be unfaithful, and Ian felt suddenly a dumb, quick relief that sent back shivers of boyish love through his face and hands that he satiated with a wet kiss to Mickey’s cheek, and a “soft see you later” before he headed out of the door, stopping at remembrance of he and Lip’s conversation. “Wait,” he started again before Mick could get too far and Mickey halted to listen to him. “Did Iggy ever get back to you about the money?” Ian asked.

           “Aaaahh,” Mickey stretched, “No, shit, sorry, fuckin’ forgot, man.”

           “It’s fine, I did too.” _Too much other shit going on to remember that._

           “Well, don’t worry about it, I’ll talk to him.”

           Ian nodded and smiled and left. _Not like I know what the hell I’d spend it on anyway._ The financial security of how much Iggy said it could bring him was artfully promising, but he’d been too inclined with too many things to remember the deal he’d made. Fact that Mickey was alive still happened to amaze and anger him from time to time, as well as Fiona’s lightly scarred lip and now, _Enzo._ Too much was going on for him to be constantly considering the monetary employment of a lucky eleven thousand dollars.

            He didn’t stay very long with his siblings, Frank was there and he was too distracted by the thoughts of the many ways he could repay Mickey in bed for his pestering harks, imagining with a little sweetness all he could do as he made it back to Mickey’s apartment. He’d lost his mood to be with his family, and so headed back to his own home, cursed to be greeted with Enzo’s presence when he walked in the door.

            More often than not, Enzo was out and about. Where and what for Ian didn’t know and didn’t really care, all he took it for was it meaning that he wasn’t at the place any more than he could tolerate, even though it seemed to only make the times he was at the place ten times worse. Tension that now was sending a jolt through Ian’s stomach as he looked to him, leaned over the island, elbows on the counter as he scrolled through his phone.

            “Hello,” Ian said with mechanic stiffness. It sounded wrong on his tongue and Enzo waved a hand up without looking to him.

            “ _Olá,_ ” He said through an exhale and Ian reached in the fridge for something to eat.

            “So, do you know when you’ll be leaving yet?” Ian asked, no discretion or care for social courtesies as he pulled out a pack of beef to thaw. Enzo laughed with those bright teeth that jutted from his mouth like the fangs of a lion and smiled to him casually.

            “I take it that you do not want me here,” he rolled in his smooth accent.

            “I’m not crazy about the idea, no.” Ian leaned along the counter and crossed his arms, taking him on with confidence despite the little condescending intimidation Enzo made him feel.

            “It should be a little over five weeks, I promise not to stay longer.” He set his phone down, sighed and gazed at him hard, almost an inch taller than Ian, which pissed Ian off a little, no matter its pettiness. “Ian Gallagher,” he spilled his name on his tongue like he was assessing cold stream water and deciding if it was clean or not. “I understand why you do not like me here. Marcello was the love of my life, and if he was staying with someone, as I am with Mickey, I’d be a bit angry too.” He held Ian’s neck, overly friendly. Not sexually or sleazily, just a voice to how much he thought himself powerful over Ian. “But whatever happened between us is now dead as my lover. I am still mourning Marcello, and I have no desire to even _think_ of another man that way for a loooong time. But, I need just, to stay here for a little while, but it will not be very long, and I respect Mickey—and you,” there’d been a slight hesitation, “and I don’t want to interfere with anything that I shouldn’t.”

            Ian bit his lip, felt the curl of a smile on Enzo’s, and nodded his head slightly forward. He still didn’t trust him, but in the moment it bade him a little relief he’d try to use to make the next five or six weeks as bearable as possible.

            He scratched at his arm even though it didn’t itch. “Yeah, okay.”


	30. MICKEY

            “Nick!” shouted Vaughn from down the end of the glossy marble hallway, wearing something blue and pinstriped with an expensive silk tie. Elevators fit in long rows like prison cells on each wall, and Mickey had been standing to the end of them where the hall met the lobby while he’d waited for Vaughn to greet him. He hadn’t ever been in a place more gorgeous, and his rumpled oxford and fitted jeans only made his feeling of being somewhere that he was not so shaped to be all the more notable.

            Vaughn was stepping down the hall with another man at his side, heels of their shoes clapping the hard floor. The man he walked with was in his mid forties and clad in a dark, silvery suit, his keys making bells in his pockets as he walked nearer. _Everyone here dresses like it’s a fuckin’ funeral or something_ , Mickey thought. He wasn’t used to the formality.

            “John, this is Nick, I’d like ya to meet him,” Vaughn roared in that confident, near patronizing tone that nearly always graced his voice. John stuck a sunbathed hand out for Mickey’s and Mickey shook it too roughly and nodded at him. “He’s the guy I was talking to you about, for the distribution job.” The John guy, who had hair so yellow it gleamed like gold, and teeth so short and bleached they came out of his mouth like tiny Altoids when he flashed his white smile and looked to Mickey with some sense of judgment, or approval, or maybe…skepticism? Some opinion that wasn’t exactly clear through his plastic features.

            “Well, that’s nice to know, I’m the head of Landon Transportation, my trucks take PIERCE’s merchandise place to place.” Mickey nodded, poked fingers through his lengthening hair and pretended to be annoyed and not nervous.

            “That’s great, I mean yeah,” Mickey said, lost, he didn’t really have much of an opinion on that, and well, he’d never been the most charismatic person in the world either. John’s smile faltered for a moment. Now, clearly sizing him up, doubt twitched the corners of his mouth at Mickey, taking in the tiny, thuggish boy clapping his worn shoes into such a beautiful building. _I know guy_ , Mickey thought, _Ain’t what I was expectin’ either._

            “Well, I’ll be headin’ out, see ya later tonight Vaughn!” John waved as he left the building, glancing at a watch worth well over five hundred dollars and tip tapping shoes made from foreign leather out of the door.

            “Hey, you came here early, that’s a good sign,” Vaughn boasted and then sighed and gestured Mickey to follow him, already starting back down the hall and to the second to last elevator on the left. “Come on, let me show ya around.” They entered the silver door, and Vaughn pressed the button for the fifteenth floor and on their way up, Mickey let the quiet clicks of sliding up the elevator shaft fill any space between them.

            He was more than out of his element so he just planned on letting Vaughn do most of the talking and ask any questions he had once he was done. They got off the elevator and Mickey stepped onto the same marble that was in the lobby, only tainted with a bit more dust. Across from them was an enormous glass wall that revealed an entire floor of men and women skittering across the office like bees through a pollinated field of sunflowers. And Vaughn almost ran inside the blended door, so fast and so rough, Mickey thought for a second he might break the glass. And Mickey found himself damning his height and Vaughn’s speed as he skipped to catch up with Vaughn’s motor walk. “So, this is my floor, corporate management team is to the right over here,” he gestured to a tight group of clean cut business men and women speaking with fake smiles toward the back of the room, and keeping left, he waved his hands out to cover the rest of the people kept to the confines of gray cubicles and navy blue ties. “And then there are of course call reps., graphic design, advertisement, I’m sure you know.” He was smiling as he crossed paths with a brown haired older woman with soft, wrinkly skin walking through the hall, pulling her close for a second to say, “This is my personal assistant and secretary, Martha.” She waved back at them both and smiled with modesty as she continued walking.

            And he finally stopped at a large set of hard, heavy, wooden doors, stained and varnished to aesthetic perfection, golden handles creating a most intimidating shine to them. Everything throughout the entire building was crested, sharp, and reminiscent to cut crystal. So clean, expensive, _and fucking shiny._

            And at the impression Mickey had now been met with, his guts were beginning to wiggle around and die. He didn’t fit in here. No one he knew could fit in _here_. The people were too nicely dressed, too corporate, too luxuriant. As they were walking in he’d glanced at a man’s cufflink that he swore had to cost more than two months’ rent. And at sight of everything grew a part of him that was beginning to regret ever keeping that business card and calling the number on it.

            He couldn’t see himself doing anything here. Company management, advertising crew, and all those little call representatives scurrying to answer phones and type up official complaints, accepting and declining offers from the little men. He didn’t belong to any of those groups. He was a sore thumb, holding a short stick, and he knew that if he found himself working in front of a computer for the rest of his miserable life would only make it all the more so miserable.

            “Have a seat,” Vaughn said when they entered his office. It was big, centered with  a glass desk, freshly polished that kept a gold iMac, black folders and a pretty gold ash tray. There was art on the walls behind Mickey, panels of some modern crap that resembled, in a sophisticated light, color splats of a child’s finger painting. The walls were a strange gray, save the wall behind Vaughn’s desk, which was just a floor to ceiling window letting in the scenery of a Chicago sunset. The floors were made of waxed ebony, and a cluster of tight auburn-leather couches and chairs with gold buttons created a small place to sit in front of his desk. Vaughn had tossed a hand at them when he’d told him to have a seat, and Mickey nearly blushed with the surprise he was allowed to even touch such furniture.

            “Wow,” he muttered, holding onto the arms of the chair he was sitting in. He had a similar sense of amazement when he’d walked into Mitchell’s office, but this amazement was filled with much more intimidation, and a much higher price if he didn’t leave with a golden ticket, though he was still unsure if he wanted one. “Nice.”

            “Ah, don’t try and inflate my ego, I’m having this entire place redone, the last thing I need is some Chicago street kid coming in here and flashing his eyes so I do something dumb like go back on a decision to buy fresh furniture.” He fell into the seat behind his desk and crossed a leg over his knee. A cocky smile was spread across his cheeks. “So what’s your opinion on my _humble headquarters,_ ” he stressed sarcasm and Mickey shrugged, rolling a wet lip under his teeth.

            “Man,” he breathed, cutting any bullshit, “why the fuck do you want me workin’ in this place. I mean, the fuck do I look like I should be working in a goddamn office, spending my life—”

            “In a cubicle, jacking off underneath your desk, fat and with kids you barely give a shit about?”

            Mickey let out his breath, “Exactly.”

            “No, no I never had that in mind.” Vaughn relaxed into his chair, “Ya see, when I met you, in that bar, I got the impression you knew your way around Chicago, fucked up on saying your name, tried to start a fight with some old bastard twice your size, you might be a little reckless, but you don’t seem too dumb, I need someone that ain’t a pussy, a bit young, and that doesn’t have a stick up their ass. And judging your character, you’ve pushed some shit around the Southside, right or wrong?”

            Mickey’s brows raised, wary of his intentions, all this was interfering with his fake persona, but it was rather evident any charade wouldn’t have worked on Vaughn anyways, and they were a little past where-are-you-from-how’s-it-going anyways. “Right.”

            “What I thought…That’s why I wanted you for distribution. I hire some chump that’s been wanting a serious, outlandishly promising position, but they don’t want to put in the proper work, because their scared of what I do, fresh out of business school, had no idea what they were in for, afraid of what I _’_ m pushing. I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that.” There was a rustling behind the door, and then a clumsy hard push into it, and then the face of a young boy with wide green eyes and skeletal arms peeking into the room.

            “Um,” he was shaking with nerves, “Mr. Pierce, Martha sent me to—”

            “Wife calling again?” Vaughn had impatience on his face and the boy nodded, shy, blushing and scared. “Tell her to wait a damn second,” he rubbed his chin, “and bring us some coffee,” he turned to Mickey, “you want cream in yours?”

            “Don’t give a shit.”

            Vaughn kissed his teeth, “Fuck you, do you want cream or not, kid?”

            “Fuck, no black’s fine.” Mickey too, found himself a bit startled by his severe tone.

            “Two black, now get the hell outta here, and tell Martha to not bother me for at least the next twenty minutes, a’ight?” The boy nodded again, his head bobbing on his skinny body, before he disappeared back out of the door. “You need to have an opinion on things, goddammit.” _Jesus, he’s intense_ , Mickey thought. “Now, as I was saying, what was it? Oh yeah, so I know you won’t have a problem with that, but you do get what I do, you get that—”

            “You buy shit and sell shit, property? How you’re cashin’ in on Whole Foods and all that, think it’s pretty obvious.” Mickey wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but he didn’t want to agitate him anymore by thinking he had no idea. Even though he didn’t really know what his company was about, what their gimmick was, or any original merchandise. After all, he’d only heard of the company after Vaughn’d shoved his card in his hand and told him to not waste his life.

            “Well, yeah,” he laughed. The boy whisked into the room with his thin arms and handed them their coffees. “Thanks, intern.” He took a sip and set it down, muttering that it was too fucking hot underneath his breath. “I mean, yeah, that’s a huge part of it, I do, buy property—I buy businesses. Failing businesses, I buy them out, slap my name on them and they stand still for a little while longer so I can push my product. I have a very successful hotel in Malibu, but, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, because well,” he lost the thought and moved on, “I also have been dabbling in buying franchises, as you know from my visit to your store. So yeah, I buy shit, and from time to time, I sell what I buy, but most of all I sell my own _shit_.” the word was said with strange delicacy, as though it held some terrible secret. “And so, I’ve made a nice little pattern out of it. I parent a business, sell my own product through them, profit,” he lit a smoke, handed Mickey one, and passed his lighter with it, Mickey handing it back once his cig was lit, “goes to more ownership, which I use to push more and more, and then well, you get the idea.”

            “Alright.” Mickey shrugged. “Still don’t know the fuck you want me to do.” Vaughn laughed again.

            “‘Nother reason I like you, Nick,  ain’t afraid to talk to me like a man…I said I wanted you in distribution, director of distribution—meaning you move the product from place to place, make sure it gets there on time, in good condition, you won’t be moving the trucks yourself, but making sure the people that do move them: move them, directing where each one will go, all of that, sounds simple enough?”

            “Yeah, I mean, sounds fucking peachy and everything, but what the hell are you sellin’? Ya sorta skipped around that.” Mickey asked, brow hard. He’d barely touched his coffee and the cigarette was now only a stick of ash that he crushed into the black tray on the end table beside him before it broke off and fell all over the pretty seat.

            Vaughn lit up at Mickey’s question though, passionate and glowing. He stood and smiled, putting out his own light, “You wanna see?” He didn’t wait for an answer and waved Mickey to follow him. And Mickey did, taking small steps to a table made to seat four, Vaughn lugged a large black briefcase onto its top. “I’ve been keeping all this for a friend of mine, samples for a merger. Need to probably take it out of my office, but hey, I done riskier shit before.” He flipped the lid open and Mickey felt the curse of a rumble within his gut, and his lips lift into an ironic smile. _Really ain’t no one in Chicago that ain’t crooked._

            A dozen packs of quarter pounds of cocaine sat lined and stacked inside, right next to two silver guns, dusted with gold on the handle. Mickey was in awe by the thing, “You mind?” he asked. Vaughn rolled his eyes as if to say “I don’t care,” and Mickey picked up a piece, stupid grin on his face. It was the perfect weight, not too heavy, not too light. Slick and with a good grip. Perfect and beautiful, worth over a thousand, he was damn sure. _Fuck me sideways._ “Jesus fucking—this is what you sell, on the regular?” Mickey asked, setting the gun back down into the black velvet bed. Vaughn shrugged.

            “Little heroin and meth too, bit of weed, but that’s getting harder with all these states deciding to make it legal.” Mickey was still rubbing away the smile from his face. Something about it was hilarious, a reminder that his situation might not be something to be so insecure about. A reminder that, he wasn’t alone in the world of fuck-ups, though this guy, was, without a doubt, a rather successful fuck up… _aaand_ _reminds me I still gotta talk to Iggy ‘bout that meth money._ It’d been a week and he’d still neglected to confront him.

            “So you basically use all the hotels, fuckin’ what—restaurants and shit you buy to move all this?” Mickey asked.

            “To put it plainly, yeah, I get my hands real dirty, kid,” his smile was smug, “and you look like you have too.” Mickey tipped his head to that. _No arguin’ there._

            “And I gotta just make sure it gets there alright and no ones ridin’ off trying to take it all on their own or somethin’?”

            “Pretty much,” Vaughn nodded. “You’ll also have to meet some of my partners in this, collaborate, make sure it branches off. But that’s the gist.”

            “Fuck, guy, how do you make sure no one here’s gonna rat?”

            “Well, not everyone _knows_ what their contributing to, not hard to tell you’ve got your own problems to worry about, and not a lot of people will believe it if they say we’re selling drugs on this large a scale, and if need be, I’ve got on call assassins.” He talked so casual, almost sweet, like he was calling out ingredients in a cookbook.

            “Fair enough,” Mick laughed under his breath again, “what percent am I gettin’?”

            “Percent?”

            “Yeah, what’s my cut on the profits?” Vaughn slapped the case shut and put it back to the corner of the room, crossing back behind his desk to plop back down into his chair.

            “It doesn’t work that way, son, you’ll get paid a regular salary just like everyone else.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “Looking around uuuhh,” he lifted his coffee cup and looked to the ceiling as if rounding the numbers in his head, “an annual seventy-five thousand a year, after taxes.”

            “No shit,” Mickey’s smile was too wide and he knocked it short when he caught himself. He was stupid to be that happy anyway. _Things that good don’t come without a price._ “What’s the catch?” Vaughn grinned proudly, swiveled slightly in his chair, and tapped a finger in Mickey’s direction.

            “Smart guy. It’s not really a catch, like I said, some of this stuff is risky, for obvious reasons, had a couple close inspections and some nasty run-ins with the Cartel, but the big thing right now is that I need you completely packed up, and settled into New York by next Spring. Here I have enough, I’m centralized here. But I’m expanding, this job requires a lot of travelling, and I need you operating in New York—hopefully _early_ Spring if I wanna get this new operation on the road _now._ ” Mickey was about to open his mouth to say something, but forgot whatever words he was about to pour, or whisper, when a tall woman wearing heavy perfume and the tightest suit dress he’d ever seen stormed in with a mean blond ponytail whipping from side to side. She was only a little younger than Vaughn, had stormy eyes, and her face now read something murderous.

            “Vaughn, I called you ten times today, and you haven’t rang back _once_ , now please explain to me what is so much more important than what’s going on between us right now that it can’t spare a single fucking second!”

            “Like to introduce you to my soon to be ex-wife, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Nick.” Vaughn pushed on the arms of his chair to stand, “Mention she’s CFO?” he said back to Mickey. She shook her head at him as though her brain was being tangled by his breath and beating heart.

            “Don’t be a smartass. If you want those divorce papers finalized, you need to start meeting with the fucking lawyer!” She smacked her hand onto his desk and Vaughn rose to meet her height. In her heels she was almost taller than him.

            “Alright, alright, but let’s set things straight, okay?” He took a large breath, “First off, I talked to Eschler this morning and he said we still have a good _while_ before fuck-all gets finalized, so you can sit your hot little ass down, and second, you don’t get to come barging into my office whenever the hell you want. Give it a little longer, and you’re not going to be my wife anymore, but you’re still gonna be reporting to _me._ Alright? First and foremost, I’m your _boss_ , and if you don’t want to be out of fucking work so you can keep swiping away on that credit card _I_ set up for you, you better pick your panties out of that tight bunch they’re in, do you _fucking_ hear me?” He ended with a mocking, “honey?” His face had beat into a solid red, and Mickey didn’t know which way to look.

            The silence was scary, and for a while, his wife didn’t say anything. She just shook her head and rolled her eyes and crossed her arms when she turned the little ways to look at Mickey. Tilting her head at him, she squinted her eyes and coughed out a tickle in her throat. “You look familiar…” She kept swiping her eyes around him as though she was trying to read out whatever he was reminding her of, “yeah—yeah, like that kid on the news they just found dead in Tijuana, he was some lowlife convict or something, but damn, you look just like him—yeah, just short and blond.” She was shaking her head again, this time at herself for being distracted and Mickey was thanking God that she’d diverted her attention so quickly. “Anyways, we have a sit down meeting tomorrow at noon, and if you aren’t there I swear to Mary, Joseph, Jesus—hell, the Holy fucking Trinity, Vaughn, I’ll have your brother come castrate you!”

            “Hard for him to do that balls deep inside your cunt!” He screamed as she was walking out. She whipped her head to look at him for another second before growling and slamming the door shut. When she was gone Vaughn was looking back at Mickey, smirking now.

            “Dead in Tijuana, huh?” He breathed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Jesus kid, barely got your life started and you’re already in deeper shit than I was at thirty.” Mickey thought for a minute that all had just closed the door to everything he’d been offered, but then a smile crawled back on Vaughn’s face and he said, “Think you’ll do just fine on this—so, are you in?”

            “I—” He wanted to say fuck yes and jump on, but he’d just been hit with a load and it was burning his skin and embarrassing him. His wife just recognized who he was. He’d be back into an organized ring of common hustlers, only difference was these hustlers were dressed in Armani suits and paid prettily, and on top of it all, he’d need to leave Chicago. _Might not be so bad an idea considering how fucking close I keep getting to be caught here, though._ “Can I get a second to think all this through? Go over it with my—ya know my boyfriend and shit?” Vaughn smiled and sipped his cold coffee.

            “Same guy?” Mickey nodded. “Good, good…Yeah sure, but don’t take too long, I need an answer soon.” Mickey nodded again, pretending to still be on the fence, though his mind was already made up.

 

“Yo! Iggy!” Mickey pounded on the old Milkovich door. Ratty and cold in the cool night air of evening Chicago. The sun had just set, leaving a little purple haze where it had sunk over the horizon, and Mickey had been standing outside for too long waiting for him to answer. It was autumn now, the evenings were getting colder and he needed to get to the apartment, before Ian complained about him being home late and leaving him alone in the house with Enzo all night. “ _IGGY_!”

            He’d been there for a good six minutes and still no one had answered the door. He knew they were home. They were always home, none of them had real jobs, and he’d not been so impulsive and neglectful as to not call before he bothered going to a place that a ghost of a man shouldn’t have gone. But there was no answer. And he really wanted to get all this meth business over with.

            “Open the fucking door!” he screamed again and huffed, climbing down the stairs to walk around the house, he met the gleam of an old window that belonged to Terry’s old room, currently vacated by his brother, he banged on it, and the glass vibrated against the bounce of his fist. Cold as ice, and the silence just as frigid. “Iggy!”

            To his momentary relief the window was being pulled open, yanked with hard, meaty fingers to the top of the frame. Too wide and too old to be Iggy’s. Too hairy and too rough to be Joey’s. Too anything to be any of his brothers. And as he stood there, gleaming up at the gnarled older man with thin gray hair, a hooked nose, and eyes as mean and stressed as his own,  his own fingertips were suddenly frozen at the edge of the window, and he had the most sudden and intense desire to drop dead, explode and disappear. But of course, none of this happened. The man only smiled wryly and sucked on a cigarette.

            “Little shit’s alive,” he blew smoke in Mickey’s face and snickered, “how ‘bout that?”


	31. MICKEY

            “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _FUCK_!” Mickey screamed and slammed the door to his apartment behind him, thunder cracking through the kitchen. Ian was sitting casually on the couch, feet propped, non-alcoholic beer in his hand, (which Mickey had tried by mistake one day after Ian had started buying them and almost spit it out at the stale taste of it). He now looked with distracted, disproportionate disgust as feverous fear boiled around his head, clouding all practicality. Ian sat calm, with budding irritation at Mickey’s melodrama, sipping his drink without care. Mickey could only move in a way that was ruffled and under duress,  pulling at his hair and swearing himself to the moon.

            “What. Is. It.” Ian stated, agitated by Mickey’s reaction. Maybe he was being a bit dramatic, maybe he was, but right now he was too panicked to give a shit.

            “My dad saw me!” He shouted, tapping the sides of his fists to the wall. That got Ian up, almost spilling his drink over him, he set it down on the coffee table and stood.

            “Terry? But he’s in—oh…shit…yeah, Mandy said he was getting out soon. Holy fuck, Mick—what did he say? Where did you see him?” Mickey didn’t answer. He was still cussing at the world, some of it under his breath, and some of it in explosive shouts. “Jesus, Mickey, take a breath and get yourself together!”

            Mickey saw the look in Ian’s eye, something astounded and round and wide, and Mickey relented a tiny nod, regulating his inhales in smooth, and his exhales out smoother. He let as much of his muscles relax as was possible in the hot moment, and tried to not use his hands too much as he talked in case the movements may have riled him up again. “He saw me. When I went to—give—” And still, he was stammering out his words in a livid growl, trying to maintain the softness he’d laid within himself, his speech still came out ghastly, rising tones and vibrations that came directly from the cords in his throat, mean, murderous, full of fear and self hatred. _Why the fuck did I have to go back there?_ Mickey cursed himself, _Shoulda met Iggy in a fucking alley or some shit!_ “I went to go get the money from Iggy, I banged on the fucking door, and of course no one fucking answered, so I went to knock on the window case that lazy piece a shit was asleep and my dad got to it first—fuck,” he was regressing back to his plethora of fucks, and they ran out in hot sheets like summer rain out of his mouth. “ _Fuck, fuck, FUCK_!” As he was screaming Enzo entered the door, bells of his keys chiming as he walked in.

            “What happened?” He asked quickly. Mickey leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms. Now silent, without the energy to explain things again, he shook his head at himself and Ian answered for him.

            “Mickey’s dad just found out that he’s alive.”

            “What?” Enzo came to Mickey’s immediate comfort, resting his hands gently on him, one touched carefully on his shoulder and the other at the bicep of his arm. “ _Caralho,_ Mickey! What did he say? Was he—happy? He did not hurt you, no?” Mickey didn’t say anything first, he was staring at Enzo’s hands on him, and flashing his eyes at Ian to find the suspicious gleam at the corner of a green eye.

             Mickey took a deep breath, “He just called me a piece a shit; I ran off before he could do anything else.” Enzo raised the hand touching Mickey’s shoulder up to the curve of his neck, and Mickey looked now from his hand, into his eyes with a question of his intentions. _Asshole, not in front of Ian,_ Mickey thought, and then damned himself for it, “ _not in front of Ian_?” Ian or no, what happened between them in Mexico stayed there.

            The thought hadn’t even come of something like that until now and it frightened him. Well, maybe it had come to him, but there just wasn’t room in Chicago for he and Enzo to be together. On top of everything he’d come to live here for, on top of Ian, Enzo just wasn’t meant for this place. The scenery of them, kissing in the humid summer air on Enzo’s porch was right, it fit the picture, made a memory serene, a Mexico memory. But only there could this be. And even these thoughts felt insane. While true, it was what Mickey felt, there was something unfaithful within the wine of his thoughts, and he didn’t like the taste.

            And so he shrugged away from Enzo, eyes still touching, speaking, telling each other that all of this was going to entail a conversation soon.

           Once he’d pulled his attention away, he dropped his arms at his sides, huffed and said, “I know he’s not gonna do shit. He fuckin’ hates me, I know ‘at much, but he ain’t gonna rat on no one. He’d kill one of my brothers if they ratted on someone, don’t matter if he had beef with them or not.” Mickey rubbed the weariness from his eyes, “But still didn’t want him to know nothin’ about me.”

          “Mickey, it will be alright, we can handle this,” Enzo said this again with a light touch to his shoulder, more celibate and fraternal this time. “We will find a way to take care of it, somehow.”

           Mickey nodded as though it was common and they were merely handling a situation that came up with the natural prospects of crime, but it was dawning on him, as he came down from the immediate shock that this wasn’t just some natural prospect of crime. This was his father. His dad. Whether he liked it or not, the man raised him, in some arguable sense: took care of him. Mickey was part of him, though seldom did he admit it, there were times he found himself saying or doing something nearly exactly how he saw his father doing it, and all this only came back to that he should only let himself fear the unknown, and Terry was not the unknown. His dad wasn’t a stranger he had to worry about running to the police with the incredible sight of a fraudulent man’s false death. He knew who his father was, and he’d ran away from him like he was a shadowy man in the woods.

          “Actually, I’m gonna go,” Mickey swallowed, letting his breath roll out evenly, he kicked himself from against the wall and grabbed a black jacket from his bedroom before he made to leave.

          “G-go? Go where, to see Terry?” Ian spoke, incredulous, his mouth was open with raw amazement.

          “Yeah. He’s my dad after all, right? The guy raised me, he’s gotta have some sorta…” Morals? Concern? Mickey didn’t know, but he was hoping he was right about whatever it was, and did all he could to peel back the strips of doubt from his mind, not leaving much confidence in its place. He ran back to his car, turned the ignition, and headed back to his old house, ignoring the wateriness of his stomach.

 

He knocked. Quietly and politely in the dark, like he would for someone he meant to impress. There was no waiting this time. The door opened with an immediate quickness, rushing a gust of wind in Mickey’s face that returned all doubts, fears, and apprehensions right to the top of his head.

            “Hey, uh, Iggy here?” Mickey asked his father, fast and with a higher pitch than he normally spoke in. Like the crackling voice of a teenage boy trying to stand up to his parents.

            “No,” he grunted.

            “Well, you uh, got a minute?” Terry seemed offended by the question somehow. But not in a way Mickey would have foreseen, in a way that stapled something like entitlement to his time, and not Mickey’s presence wasting it.

           “Get in here, Mickey.” His tone was filled with impatience. Mickey knew him to not be fond of courtesies or politeness.

            He stepped into the house and walked around, thinking it funny how it didn’t exactly feel like his anymore. He stood by the old dining table, and thudded his fingers on the top of the wood, thought sucking on his scalp. “Sit down, and stop staring at the fuckin’ ground like your dog just died.”

            Mickey sat, listening just as he would’ve as a child, ashamed of his meekness. Some things just couldn’t be unlearned. Especially things that were taught with belts and fists. Terry sat down in front of him, cigarette still at the corner of his mouth, shirtless and only wearing jeans and stained socks. His father stared at him for a little while. Just taking him in. Touching his face with his eyes. No judgment, only observation, and maybe a bit of surprise. He finally let out a deep, loud breath of smoke and started to speak again.

            “The fuck happened to you, Mickey?” Mickey bit his lip and nodded his head as though agreeing with his question.

            “Lot. Faked my death, came back to Chicago.”

            “No shit, shithead,” Terry snapped. The second hand smoke was making Mickey want a cigarette himself, though he didn’t ask. It was strange that even after all he’d been through, after every strange touch of evil that had marked his shoulder, and after every way he’d fought and stood up to his dad, the man could still make his heart beat fast with fear, and jut out all past pain, even that of decades’ past.

            “Well, either that or stay in Manzanillo rest a my life.”              

            “The fuck is that?” Mickey almost smiled.              

            “Place down in Mexico.”               

             Terry blew smoke out of his nostrils and shook his head, though Mickey could not tell if it was at him, for all he’d done and faking his death, or some internal thing he would never say out loud.  “And the hell you want from me, huh? Money?”  

             “No, dad,” Mickey said crisply, angered by the prospect. _Wouldn’t’ come to you for money if I was gonna be homeless without it._ “I just—Iggy pushed some meth for me and I was comin’ to get my cut, and then—”

               “You saw me and you decided to run off?” No judgment in that either, no hidden disappointment, nothing that blamed Mickey of cowardice, just factual. And surprised as he was by the tone, Mickey didn’t answer. He didn’t feel he was supposed to. Terry sighed, stubbed his smoke out on the table and walked over to a case of beer, pulling open the cardboard and peeling away a bottle. “All my kids are afraid a me, and I’ll tell ya, I could give two fucks about that,” he stabbed the bottle on the table and fell back into his chair, holding on tight to the drink, he leaned in a little close to Mickey, “but you playing dead without even tellin’ me, without one of your dumbass brothers tellin’ me? I should kick your fuckin’ face in for that.”

               Mickey’s mouth was agape. Still with shock. What the fuck was wrong with him? Suddenly acting like he cared. Suddenly acting like he gave a shit about him, acting like he was his son. He thought that had all been done with about two years ago at the Alibi. And even though the only reason Mickey was here was because Terry was his father, the entitlement he’d proclaimed to knowing about Mickey’s fake death, and his inclination to think that Mickey owed him anything made him sick. When he fell away from his dramatic elbows-over-the-table intimidation nonsense and relaxed into the back of the chair, Mickey’s eyes were tearing with rage.

               “You expected me to talk to you?” Mickey said in passion, jabbing a finger toward him. “Last time I saw you, I was gettin’ fuckin’ cuffed on the hood of a police car, after you tried to fucking kill me!”

               “I wadn’t trying to kill you, Mickey, I was _tryin’_ to knock some sense into you for announcing to the fuckin’ world that you’re a goddamn faggot!” Mickey shook his head instead of rolling his eyes. Though he would like more to do the latter. There was no arguing with that. Terry believed what he believed about his being gay and there was no sense in trying to change his mind.

               “Well didn’t do fuck all—just so ya know.” And then he said, lower, “You’re the only one that gives a damn.”              

               “Yeah, that’s ‘cause I’m the father havin’ to deal with a gay son.” Now, Mickey _did_ roll his eyes.

               “Whatever you fuckin’ think.”

               “What? You’re the one that came back ‘ere to argue.”

               “I didn’t come here to argue, I came here to get the money from Iggy.” It was mostly true.

               “Well he ain’t here, so why you wanna come bitch to me?” Mickey shook his head and looked to the ceiling. “I get it, you’re alive, the fuck did you expect me to say?”

               Mickey shrugged, “Nothin' really, I guess...I don’t fuckin’ know.” He was dumb to expect anything more. Mickey stood up, grabbed his coat from where he’d wrapped it around the back of the chair  and Terry stopped him, hand on his forearm.

               “Take this up by Hailee, will ya?” He reached across the table, fingertips pulling an envelope forward. He handed it to Mickey.

                Mark Hailee was an old drug selling man with red hair and plaster skin that Terry had known since Mickey was a boy. Terry used to take his siblings and him to Hailee’s house when they were kids. The men would sit and drink, and smoke, and talk, while he and his brothers beat each other up in the backyard. “You don’t gotta see ‘im, just drop it in his mailbox.” Mickey sighed, nodded, and ripped the paper from his father’s hand, flipping it over and around as he headed out the door. “And try not to get yourself _actually_ killed this time.”

               Mickey’s eyes flashed back to his father. He was lighting a cigarette, balancing it on his wrinkled lips and rolling back the butt of the lighter to flick it on fire. Casual, but the way he’d said it didn’t necessarily sound so. It sounded like he meant it more than he was letting on. Like he meant it with some grief  that had come of thinking he was actually dead for months.

               “Well, the fuck are you looking at? Get a move on!” He shouted, snapping Mickey out of it. Mickey nodded, swallowed, and closed the door shut.

               He dropped the envelope off quickly, letting go of the last request his father ever asked of him, and holding onto whatever concern he had that Mickey’d never noticed before. 

 

When he returned to the apartment, Enzo was the only one in sight, sipping hard rum, and rubbing glass eyes. He’d been crying. And Mickey could smell that little budding conversation that had needed to happen which gave him some sense of death being polite. He wasn’t trying to be caught in some ridiculous love triangle bullshit, and Ian and Enzo were both pissing him off with what they were doing. Or maybe it was how he was seeing it, or something else, he didn’t fucking know.

               “Hey man, you okay?” He asked as he took off his coat, putting it on the back of a kitchen chair as he had at his dad’s house. Enzo was holding a piece of paper that looked like a letter, and taking another look at it, he put the thing away. No doubt that it was something Marcello had written to him.

               “Yeah, I’m fine…you talk to your father?” He spoke, suddenly rising from his spot at the kitchen table to flush his liquor down the sink. Mickey nodded and sat down himself, across from where Enzo had been sitting.

               “Yeah, guess so, sorta just cussed each other out and then he asked me to drop something off at a friend a his.”

               “Did you?” Enzo asked, intensity curling around the lines in his face. He sat across Mickey and strained his eyes clear underneath pointed brows.

               “Yeah, just took a couple minutes.”

               “Mickey, no,” he forced out suddenly, “you cannot do that for people. He sees you do it now, and then he keeps asking for more and more, if you no longer want to then he will you know—blackmail, or threaten you into doing it more!”

               “No, he fuckin’ won’t, a’ight? I know my dad. Last thing the guy would do is get involved with the police or some shit.”

               “Who says it has to be them? It could be someone else he knows, someone who is willing to hurt you, hurt others for money.” Mickey swore underneath his breath. He was tipsy and clearly basing all speculation off of something he’d personally gone through.

               “Dude, you’re thinkin’ this too far through, it ain’t that serious. Probably never gonna see him again anyways, I mean, once Iggy’s there to get the money.”              

               “You have to do something Mickey, goddammit, everyone here cannot know about this—you’re going to ruin everything I’ve set up.”

               “Eh, it’s alright, he’s not gonna do something, it just—God, can we fuckin’ drop this for right now?” Enzo let a breath of annoyance out and waved his hand dismissively. “Ian go to bed?” Enzo nodded.

               “ _Sim—_ yes.” There was silence for a minute, calm and quick, and then Enzo let out a little chuckle. “I have to say he is not what I was expecting.”

               “Yeah?” Mickey smiled. Enzo nodded.

               “It must’ve been hard, yes? Explaining this all to him?” Mickey laughed.

               “Yeah, took one to the face for it.” Enzo was nodding for a little while, looking at Mickey with a question, not to Mickey, but to himself. Something deep in his eyes, and then he made a bit of a quiver with his lip when he opened his mouth, as if to speak, but shut it fast and leaned in to kiss him. Lips pressed hard, hands reaching at Mickey’s neck, Mickey jerked back with short immediacy and bolted up from his seat. Enzo followed him up and laughed. “Stop,” Mickey was trying hard to not raise his voice, “that’s not funny, fuckhead. Shit that happened to us in Mexico, stays in Mexico. Stop feeling up on me in front of Ian, and leave me the fuck alone.”

               “Really, leave you alone?” He looked amused, full of some arrogant disbelief. And Mickey nodded.

               “Yeah.”  Enzo laughed again. Ignoring his protests, he kissed him once more, pulling him in deep, sensuous, tantalizing with the soft edges of his fingers grazing ever so slightly through Mickey’s hair. And Mickey, heated, warm, and full of something that was primal and plump with tasteful memory, suddenly was made blind to whatever sense and faith normally sobered him. He held on tight, holding at Enzo's neck, and bringing him in deeper. His mouth drinking from every movement, Enzo’s hand reached for his groin and slipped his fingers down his pants. He moved his mouth on Mickey’s neck, doing his signature little nibble that had drove Mickey crazy so many nights in Mexico. And then Mickey stopped, and shoved him away, and he stumbled back and Mickey stared at him, confused. Both at himself and at Enzo.

               And he stood still, stood: staring at him some more, breathing heavy, lips rouged. Mickey watched him wipe the little glisten of spit at the bottom of his mouth.

               And Mickey didn’t say anything. He’d never felt anything like what he was now, and so there was nothing he knew to say. He rubbed at his face, as though it’d somehow wash away the already bubbling guilt and kept flicking his eyes towards him as he walked into his bedroom to lay down beside Ian, who he woke up roughly and had sex with mightily fast, before he let himself even think of Enzo again.


	32. MICKEY

            The next morning Mickey had allowed his fingers to graze the side of Ian’s cheek, and his eyes to solidify the picture of him in his mind. Tracing with his eyes every strawberry hair, counting each gold freckle, and noting the little creases at the sides of his mouth. He paid attention to every subtle breath that left the corner of his lips, and even paid witness the occasional twitch of his finger, jerking through some powerful stream of a thought or dream. It was too unreal. Too perfect. A moment in which he could only sit and admire all that he had, all he had come back for, and wonder for a minute what scary thing within in him had moved him to kiss Enzo so hard, and hold him so tight.

            Excitement, memory, something else too strong and too foreign that he would like to stay away from. Something dangerous…Like pity. He never thought he would, but he felt sorry for someone much more than he’d ever allowed himself to realize. _Pity? Whaddya think a that_? The guy had lost everything, his money, his cars, his apartment, and now his lover, Marcello. And staring at Ian, in such an instant, taking the time to detail each perceivable flaw, and turn it into something indescribably beautiful, the thought of losing him only riveted him with the pitiful pain of what he imagined Enzo to be going through.

            And pity or no, some part of him wondered really if Ian hadn’t been a room over, whether or not he would have stopped himself. And it was this thought he pitied the most.

            He showered to clear his head, shaved away any stubble, and then dressed cleanly, combed through his hair, damning the darkness shedding through his roots. He basked in the freshness when he walked out of the bathroom to see Enzo passed out on the couch, head thrown back, dark stubble scraping his jaw and shining in through the window. The little curls of his eyelashes brushed underneath his eye. Mickey shook all thoughts from his head and left for work before he could do anymore thinking or marveling that might lead to something pathetically and deliciously wicked.

            And while, for once, he had been looking more forward to going work and scanning nut-bars and papaya for the extent of his day than anything else, just for a chance to forget about Ian and Enzo all together, this he could not even be alleviated by. For his immediate presence within the place was made with Brittany running to him, this time not with her chipper steps and wide, clueless rabbit eyes, but a depressed and worried, gossipy gloss that shivered her entire body.

            “I—” Whatever brilliant thought was about to dance out of her mouth was cut short as she took Mickey into her arms, crying into his shoulder as though he was her most trusted friend. _Kid doesn’t get the idea of what the fuck a boundary is._ And then she pulled away, to Mickey’s sensitive relief, and apologized for the dampness of his shoulder. “Um, I don’t know how much you’ll care, you didn’t know her like I did, but I knew you guys were friends, uggghh,” she groaned as though the sentence was too much to say, so unbearable that it annoyed her. “Raquel was still going through a trial, that she didn’t really tell anyone about—I think she was too embarrassed, I don’t know, but—” She was choking on her tears again, and the thought of seizing her by the shoulders and shaking whatever she was going to say out of her was suddenly very tempting.

            “‘But’ what Brittany? Christ fucking,” she started crying harder and he calmed himself. “What is it?” She finally stopped, snorting up her tears and shoving it all down so she could speak.

            “She got fifteen years!” Mickey squinted, confused, and she fell into her cries again.

            “No, she didn’t, Brittany, there’s no fucking way, you can’t get fifteen years for bein’ a whore—” She shushed him.

            “Whore? What the hell are you talking about? She got time for accessory, she helped her ex-husband kill some dude a while back.” Mickey still was somehow not getting it. Somehow, it all wasn’t computing, his mind was doing the math, but no matter which way he put it, it produced some indefinable outcome that lacked any sense.

            “How the hell do you know all this?”

            “She wrote me! She wrote everybody! She had to have written to you, too!” _No._ It was finally hitting him. _No,_ _fucking fuck no._ The truth of it was setting in. Not anger, not fear, or regret, not even an entire loss, as while she was a nice friend, they hadn’t been very close at all. It was just some irrevocable disappointment, grandiose feeling of pure hatred at the thought of everything having to be a lie. _So many damn lies_. His entire fucking persona was a lie. And so far all ignorance had taught him was that it truly was _blissful_ , and he’d like to let one thing be revealed to him that wasn’t just _sick_ or distorted or somehow tainted with swirls of the world’s evil.

            “Fuck.” He walked past her without saying another word and threw on his apron. It was definitely going to be a long day.

 

“Hey, man,” Mickey spoke into the phone and Vaughn’s voice buzzed on the other side as he walked into the apartment lobby, sorting through his key-ring and picking the small one that went to his mailbox. It was only six in the evening, but it felt like he’d been at work for a week and a half, and all he’d been thinking about, insanely enough, was coming home to check his mail.

           And when he opened the tiny metal door, Vaughn still speaking through the phone, he looked over all he’d received with reckless care. Bank statements, advertisements, coupons, bills. He hadn’t thought she’d care so much to seek his address, but as he turned over another reminder for his upcoming utilities pay, he found it. A crisp white envelope with Raquel’s name written in her neat, womanish hand writing, all straight and curvy detailing the return address to the prison. _Goddammit._

          Sending him back to the days he would get letters from when he was in prison. He didn’t send very many himself, but a few came in that he would write back to, some from Svetlana, couple from his brothers, and some just from a few stupid high school students trying to be edgy by pen-palling a convict. They’d always come crinkled, dingy, a bit crushed from security checks. But this one wasn’t so. It was clean, and pretty, and when he opened it, a frown immediately shook his features.

            _Hey Nick, sorry you’re reading this, kinda making sure I send them to everybody._

           Vaughn was still talking over the phone, corporate things, plans for New York, preparations he needed to make, and papers that needed to be signed, and Mickey was listening, of course, but his eyes were also skittering along the paper he was holding.

            _Didn’t tell anyone while I was out. Only people that knew about the case was my employers and my lawyers. Haha. I didn’t want anyone else to know, think shit of me. But anyways, I guess this all sounds sorta confusing, so I’ll try to explain._

_Few years ago, my husband and I were handling some deals with this gang. He was working with some men from Detroit, and one had driven all the way here to handle some crack, or coke, or something. I guess he gave him some mixed with fucking drywall or something, and the guy was pissed. They got into a fight. My husband ended up shooting the guy. I wasn’t there when it happened, but when I came home, he was still trying to clean up the mess._

_Of course, I freaked the hell out. I was a hooker, and some of the shit I did was dangerous, but the most I had to ever do was knick a guy with a butterfly knife that wouldn’t let me go. The cut had beaded blood, and he’d hissed and I got away. But there was blood all over the floor when I came home that night. More than I’d ever seen. It was scary as shit, and I didn’t know what to think. But, he was my husband, and I loved him, and so I helped him get rid of the body and everything else we thought would leave a trail._

_But, fast forward to today, I was finally convicted. They had him convicted almost immediately, it was a pretty sloppy job, and he went to prison fast, but it took longer for those prosecutors to prove my part in it._

_Anyways, I guess none of this really matters. I just promised myself I’d let everyone know if I got in.  Everyone that touched my life. I was too scared to say anything when I knew I’d still have to see them all the time, but now that I’m behind bars for fifteen years, guess worth letting people know I didn’t just vanish. Kind pussy ain’t it? Oh well, it is what it is._

_I was thinking about telling people to come visit. I know my sister will, with Kaijah, she’s watching over her while I’m locked up. But I did a year in here a long time ago for prostitution, and I learned real quick that people like to visit a couple times in the beginning, but eventually they lose their patience. They come see you once and then they never talk to you again. Same goes with writing, but it’s okay, because unlike some people in the joint, I can understand that the outside world goes on, while things stay pretty much the same in here._

_Fuck, I just wish I could’ve got my life together when I know I should’ve, only puts it bad for the kids, you know? I mean, fuck, I knew this one hooker a few years back, she was from out of the country and she was pregnant when she was working. It’s just seeing shit like that that really makes you wonder how the hell you wound up where you are now. Like, fuck, at least I took a break while I was knocked up._

_Anyways, I just sorta wanted to let you know. You’re pretty chill, Nick. I can tell you gotta lot of secrets, which makes me like you more. Nice to know, I guess, considering the shit I kept from everybody. But, yeah, that’s it. Thanks for being my friend through the short time we knew each other. I just ask that you don’t bother writing back. You have your own life to worry about, make the most of it._

_-Raquel_

          “Hey, are you still listening to me?” Vaughn almost shouted through the phone. Mickey jerked and nodded, and then said yes after he remembered Vaughn couldn’t see him. “Well kid, gave you all the details, now I need an answer, time is ticking, already gave ya a week to think this over, need to know now.”

          “I’m…” He looked over the letter again and started to fold it up. “I’m in, yeah, fuck, um, sorry, yeah…I’m in.”

         “You okay?” Vaughn asked and gave an irritated chuckle. “You’re talking more slow and more stupid than Lennie Small.” Mickey’s face twisted with confusion.

         “Who?” he ripped, caught off guard by the unfamiliar name. Pierce was no doubt shaking his head at him with the voice he used afterwards.

          “Just—just forget about it. Good to know you’re in, you should probably start looking at apartments in Manhattan. If you need a loan to get ya started, ya got me. ‘Cause lemme tell ya, if ya think rent is high here, boy, you’re in for somethin’.”

          “Yeah, okay, thanks.”

         “Should put in a notice ‘bout a month before you leave your job too, okay?” Mickey said he got it, and Vaughn spoke up again, “Anything you wanna ask me? I gotta get back to work soon, I have one last meeting before I get to go, but real quick, do you have any questions?” Mickey hesitated, his mind was distracted, and his head was loose, and his being felt restless, all emotional muscles within him were worn. He might’ve just been annoyed by Raquel’s incarceration, if it weren’t for everything else that had been going on. But with Terry, and Enzo… and he still had to get that meth money from Iggy. Everything horrible seemed to all be happening at once, and right when he figured things couldn’t get worse, they somehow did.

          “You know my name ain’t Nick, right?” He blurted, thoughtlessly. He knew that wasn’t the sort of question the man was looking for, and that he was supposed to ask about a definitive salary and what to expect from the job, but it was inspired by the sad words of a prisoner he could sympathize too much with and out before he could bend his mind away from thinking very far.

          Vaughn took a long, radio breath over the phone, and Mickey swallowed, nervous of his response. “Look, kid, I don’t wanna know you’re real name, or whatever shitty story you got yourself into. I get it: you’re already a criminal, a lot of us are. But I don’t need to know what’s real about you and what’s not. Ain’t no point in knowing a name I’m never gonna call you. And trust me, if anything starts to get heated, I’ll help you take care of it. But, soon you’ll be bringing in enough dough to pay your own way out of things. And trust me, you’d be surprised how cheap some people in the system are. But like I said, I gotta go, so I’ll talk to you more about all this later, okay?”

          “Okay,” Mickey said. Ian came stepping down the stairs to the bottom of the building and slowed his pace at the sight of Mickey. Lightly swinging himself along the railing on his last step down, he walked closer, Mickey granting him a quick glance before looking back to the paper he was still holding. There was a bubble of hatred toward himself for the little guilt that was knotting inside his belly when he looked at him. He hadn’t even gone all the way and he was still shaken with remorse. _Get yourself together, Mickey, ain’t like you did somethin’ crazy with the guy._ But this wasn’t any great consolation, and his mind still held intrusive thoughts of Enzo.

          Mickey and Vaughn said their final farewells and hung up, and Ian pointed to the paper he was holding. “What is it?” He asked, wringing out his bad wrist.

          “Uh,” Mickey breathed, “just, letter from that chick at work.” Mickey’s lips fit into a flat line and he shook his head, rubbing his brow in exasperation.

          “One we hung out with?” Mickey nodded. “She sent a letter? Why the hell—who sends letters anymore?”

          “People in prison,” Mickey answered coldly and ripped the paper in half. He threw it in a nearby disposal before he started making his way back up to the apartment, Ian following him.

          “Shit, I’m sorry Mickey, that’s fucked up. Do you know what happened?” He wished he didn’t. He might’ve been fine knowing that she was in prison, a little disappointed yes, but for something that was some terrible reflection of what got him fifteen years heavily irritated him.

          “Accessory after the fact.”

          “Jesus.” Ian’s eyebrows went up, but he asked nothing else. Mickey could see he was catching onto his cold tone, and so Ian left it at that.

          “Yeah, I think she mighta known—” He stopped himself and scratched his arm. He wasn’t sure enough Raquel had been talking about her to say it out loud, and there was still so much he felt unresolved with that woman he knew would never be taken care of, considering she was in Russia now. He just wasn’t to let himself say. “Were you about to go somewhere?”

         “No, I just came down lookin’ for you, I mean, going to the bar to work later, but that’s not for a little while.” Mickey started with his keys and shoved the jagged edge into the lock. “Heard you talking on the phone…Who was that by the way?”

         Mickey breathed, he still hadn’t even mentioned Vaughn to him, or New York. Though he’d said he would, he figured the conversation might entail something unhealthily painful and he’d been crushed enough in his life, especially ever since he left that god awful correctional facility. And if the time came that he had to tell him about going to Manhattan and Ian decided he wanted to stay in Chicago, he’d hold onto the ignorance of not knowing a little while longer.

        “Just, y’know, my boss.” Ian nodded. _Ain’t a complete lie_ , Mickey considered and pushed the door in.

        “Hey, can we talk?” Ian said as they entered the kitchen. Mickey was taken aback by his tone. Scared suddenly; shocked. Had he found out? Had he heard something? They’d fucked right after Mickey had pried himself away from Enzo. And if he’d known, Mickey was pretty sure Ian wouldn’t have been willing. _Unless Enzo said something_. Mickey _had_ been at work all day. Enzo would’ve had all the time to tell Ian, gloat, taunt, Mickey didn’t know what he might do.

        “We’re talking now, ain’t we?” Ian was impatient and the look in his eye was irritated, and then he huffed and went off.

        “Mickey,” he begun, “I can’t stand him. I can’t stand your Brazilian ex-boyfriend being here another goddamn minute,” Mickey swore under his breath and lolled his head to the ceiling, maybe muttering half a prayer. At least that was all that was bothering him. “Hey, act annoyed, I don’t give a fuck. Mickey, he’s a condescending ass and I don’t like the way he looks at you! _I’m_ with you alright? _I’m_ the one that was there when you got shot at the Kash and Grab at sixteen, _I’m_ the one that watched you marry Svetlana, that ran off because of you, that came to _you_ when I was having a psychotic break, _I’m_ the one that almost ran away with you, and damn near killed myself when you I thought you were dead, so could you please just _fucking_ listen to me?” Mickey sighed, looking at him, suddenly rushed with the feeling of Enzo’s lips on his, and the desperate grip of Ian’s embrace when he’d shown up at the baseball field.

        “Ian,” he spoke softly, “I know, but—”

         And then the devil they’d been speaking of flew through the door, panicked, scared. His hair was cut in short, wild tufts, spiky and unkempt, dyed deep black. He’d shaven his face perfectly clean, and the speed with which he moved shortened his breath. Packing all of his things, and ripping various documents along the way, he ground the papers down the garbage disposal and let thin little threads of Portuguese cusses through the air.  

         “Woah, woah, woah, what the fuck is going on?” Mickey demanded as Enzo held the cap of a pen in his mouth and scrawled something onto the back of his passport

         “They know I’m here, in Chicago, I have to leave.”  Mickey’s eyes pouted from out of their sockets. _Fixes one problem_ , he thought, ignoring any disappointment trying to string through him. _But, fuck if they know he’s here and somehow find out about me…_

          “What’re you gonna do?” Enzo stilled at Mickey’s question, and his face dropped. He threw the passport and the pen into a pocket of his backpack and zipped it up, throwing the enormous thing over his shoulder. He pulled his suitcase to his side and struck a finger through the air.

          “I need to talk to you about that. Alone.” Mickey glanced at Ian, who was letting out exhales of angry suspicion.

          “Okay,” Mickey said and followed him out of the door. The hall must have dropped several degrees just from the time Mickey had been inside, because the atmosphere was soon polluted with a dark, rusty sense of cold that froze all touches of speech. And before Mickey could ask whatever Enzo wished to talk about, he was rambling, his words no less icy than the feeling of the hall.

          “Mickey,” he began, speaking very fast, fidgety and nervous, and with some hard notion of brilliance. “Mickey, there is still something that I have not very much told you about myself, but um—” His wet eyes flicked along the staircase and around the apartment floor, making sure no one else was around. He let out a deep, barking grumble in his throat, before he confessed, “I’ve killed people, like, a _lot_ of people. Sixty—no—seventy, more like seventy three after you know well, the man in the alley, the owner of the hotel—I killed him so I could start running it myself Ah, at least twenty of the men I worked with through drug trafficking, and then a few—a few just because I knew I could.” He laughed, and Mickey’s heart jumped. “Um, so, yes, that is why, they mainly want me, and yes—I did work with the cartel and a few drug lords with my uncle—this you all know, I was not lying about it.” He was finally breathing with more regularity, though his forehead was sparkling a tiny perspiration. “But I may have left all of this out.”

          “Fuck you, man, what the hell is wrong with you!” Mickey shouted. He would’ve screamed, but there was something thick and full of needles lodged in his throat. That and he didn’t want anyone to step out of their room and ask if everything was okay.

 _Goddammit_.

           His pores were making hard bumps on his arms, and he knew this not to be from the chilly air. As, he’d never felt so goddamn stupid in his life, and all of it, every tiny piece of bad news, sorrow, evil, and imprisonment was leaching onto him. There were always more secrets. _Always so many fucking secrets_. He wondered sometimes if there was anything truly and purely genuine in the world, or at least in Chicago. Because right now, this revelation was killing him the most.

            _He’s a motherfucking serial killer_.

           The statement might have been unbelievably strong and horrendously demonizing, if it weren’t for the blatant look of some twisted adoration that had shined within the gleam of Enzo’s eye when he’d listed all the men he’d made his victim. Mickey didn’t know what to think. What the fuck was he supposed to think? He’d almost cheated on Ian with a serial killer.

          “No, no, it’s okay!” He scooped up Mickey’s hands and held them close to his chest. “It’s alright, I have a plan, okay.? I have a plan.”

          “And what the _fuck_ is that? Huh?” Mickey cried. “Murder the entire fucking Interpol?” Mickey’s face was red and his veins were bulging, but Enzo was letting out a cry of a laugh.

           “No, no, Bosnia.” He said it with such psychotic conviction, such terrible zeal: it was frightening. For a moment he appeared crazier than anyone Mickey had ever seen, and he wondered for a minute if this was really the person, in those months spent in Mexico, he might’ve said he had maybe been falling in love with.

          “Bosnia?” He spit back. Enzo dropped Mickey’s hands, smile breaking his face.

          “ _Sim, sim,_ I already have passports!” He was too excited for his own good, “And—and I already started to learn the language, and I have even converted a little bit of money—”

          “Thought you said you were broke?” He knocked his head side to side, as if considering. _Fuck, and I felt sorry for you._

          “I don’t have as much money as I used to, but Mickey,” he begged, “Mickey, I came here for you. Do you think I would really come here, if I had no money? I have cousins, my uncle may have cut me off, but I have plenty of people I can go stay with. I want you,” he sighed, “I want you to come with me!”

          “Jesus, fuck.” Mickey ran a hand over his face and felt a choking in the back of his mouth. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t comprehend some fugitive he used to have an affair with wanting to run away with him. _Déjà vu._

         “I know it may sound crazy, but it is actually _perfeito_ , Mickey! No one is going to search for me in some random Slavic country, across the world! I’m Brazilian! No one will find me there! And I want you to come with me. Come, Mickey, no one will find us there, there is no way. You know that you are not safe here, come with me.”

         “Enzo, I just got a job in New York! I got Ian! Did ya ever think a that!”

           Enzo slowed down immediately and swallowed, nodding, understanding what he was saying, but in no way that was friendly. And Mickey was sure he could see some vicious sense of comprehension slicking over him. “New York,” he laughed “ _Ian_ ,” he whispered. “You didn’t’ seem to be thinking about Ian last night.” Mickey twitched but otherwise ignored the snide comment.

           “Fuck, I can’t handle this shit right now. Enzo, I’m not goin’ with you.” Enzo’s eyes dropped to the ground and he picked at the skin around his thumb. “I’m sorry…Look, I gotta go deal with my own problems right now anyways and get that money from Iggy without my dad gettin’ in my face, so we can just—”

           “Don’t worry about your father,” he snapped. His voice had morphed into a disappointed, angry growl. “I took care of it.”

           Mickey’s mouth was creaked open and his jaw twisted with painful slightness at those words. “The fuck are you talking about?”

          “You were too pussy to handle it on your own so I did!” He shouted.

          “The fuck did you do!” Mickey hollered back, anger budding through his eyes.

           “ _I took_. Care of it.” Low, like a wolf, and then he picked up his suitcase and headed down the stairs, stomping carefully on each one. Mickey yelled after him, stepping down a little ways himself.

            “Enzo, _Enzo_!”

            The Brazilian looked back for a second and then reached the bottom of the apartment stairs, thrusting the door to the building shut in a loud crack of wind, and Mickey, mind sore, head swimming, kicked a hard boot to the railing, and shrieked.

             “ _FUCK_!”


	33. IAN

            What was he supposed to say?

            _Jesus, what the fuck am I supposed to say_?

            Ian didn’t know.

            He hadn’t ever seen Mickey the way he was now. Somewhere stuck between letting himself be depressed, not letting himself be depressed, letting himself be angry all while doing some silent mourning that made even Ian irritated by just looking at him. He pleaded with himself that he’d just say something. If he would just speak now and say _something._ But he hadn’t for the most of the night. He’d just stayed where he was, sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the apartment building, blank expression on his face. The look in his eye reading that he was still replaying the sight of ringing sirens shooting through the dark in front of his old house and flashing along the stretch of the porch.

            They’d talked to Iggy and Joey once the streets were cleared, only for them to confirm what they both already knew.

            Terry was dead.

            And there was something strange about that statement Ian couldn’t quite grasp. He’d lost his mother and the feelings that came from that were all he could use to compare to however Mickey was feeling now that he was short a father. But he doubted his comparison was of any stable accuracy. After all, Monica may have been a terrible mother, but she was no Terry, and it hadn’t been a natural illness within the brain to swipe away Mickey’s dad either. It was murder.

            Enzo, that devilish man with a terribly quick smile, Ian hadn’t ever liked him to begin with. He smelled something suspicious almost as soon as they’d met, but even he couldn’t have predicted this. And Mickey was the most in shock. And the broken look on his face hurt Ian more than anything.

           Things were supposed to be great now. Mickey had come all this way to see Ian, and Ian had finally been able to accept Mickey’s life and get over his death, and now he only wanted so much as to be with him forever, but no matter the goodness that _should’ve_ been, they were still trapped in tasteless, inescapable chaos. Still stuck in that constant battle between happiness, fear, and danger.

            “You okay?” Ian finally said once he’d gained the courage to speak and sat down next to Mickey, laying a light hand to touch his back. He retracted it when he felt him tense underneath his fingertips.

             Mick shook his head and wiped away a redness from his eyes that might have been tears. “I fuckin’ hated him…but fuck—he was still my dad, y’know?” Mickey said. Ian nodded, thinking back to Monica and that conflicted, confused taste in his mouth when he came home to the news. “God, I’m such a fucking moron!”

            “Mickey, you didn’t know he was gonna do that.”

            “Yeah. But he still killed my fucking dad. On account a me. On account a me not seein’ when someone is completely out of their fucking mind!”

            “I didn’t know either,” Ian whipped, “am I fucking moron?” He was trying to offer some pointless reason, though he knew it wouldn’t help with whatever blame and grief was riddling Mickey right now.

            “You didn’t know him like I did, Ian. He was smart, he was all fucking annoying and cocky, but I fucking trusted him. I thought he was a cool guy, and then he just comes begging me to go to Bosnia and telling me he killed my dad, who the fuck else can I blame, huh? I shoulda seen all this before…” Ian sighed with impatience and turned his head to really look at Mickey, closely and with stone-like wonder.

            “He wanted you to go to Bosnia?” Mickey shook his head and rolled his eyes, too fatigued to explain. “Mickey—look, you couldn’t have known. How the fuck would you be able to know? You weren’t gonna snoop on somebody you trusted, you weren’t gonna assume some guy you were friends with was going to kill Terry. I mean, where the hell do you see yourself predicting this?” Ian took a deep breath and looked into Mickey deeply, reading his soul, so washed and worn, and drained. “Sometimes there isn’t anyone to blame.”

             Mickey’s eyes squinted as though they were flooded with sunlight despite that the only brilliance was the shine of the stars and streetlights pouring through the lobby windows. And the only noise was the little whistling of the night’s wind and the constant rush of insects buzzing around outside. And then Mickey took a breath to speak, opening his mouth and closing it, as though he was considering carefully what he was and wasn’t going to say. And then he spoke, in a voice that cracked in soft places and scratched Ian with sorrow.

            “Uh, never really told ya this but, my dad made me and my brothers bury a dead body once—when I was like eight or somethin’.” He swallowed hard, “He took us out to the lake and we rolled some guy into a grave piece by piece.” Ian’s mouth hung open and he shut it fast.

            “He did?” Mickey nodded and said yes with a stiffness that said he might cry again.

            “I dunno, think it fucked me up more than I like to think it did.”

            “Jesus-fuck, why the hell didn’t you say something sooner? How come you’re just telling me this? Why now?”

            “Because of this, because this is why. Because if I told you, it was gonna be his huge fuckin’ thing, and I’m trying to just not give a shit about it anymore.” There was a silence between them again, and then Ian whispered that he was sorry, and thought, _He still knows how to surprise me at least…even though it’s not always in the best way._ “I got a job in New York,” he broke the silence and Ian’s head turned briskly.

            “No shit?” There was a sort of a smile on his face, but a sadness twinged it and scared it away. _That means he’s moving._ I’m _moving,_ he realized.

            “Yeah,” Mickey almost smiled then too, obvious that there was some excitement in the prospect.

            “What is it?” Ian asked.

            “Ah, director of distribution, for this old dude I met at a bar. He’s got this huge company, cool guy, feels like he’s doin’ me some sorta charity by lettin’ me on, but I ain’t complainin’ pays more than what I thought I’d ever be makin’ in my poor, miserable life.”

            “Well, if it pays well it’s probably worth it, I guess.”

            “Yeah, well, I gotta leave early next year. Spring. Get set in Manhattan.” He said this shyly and Ian nodded, swallowing his nerves.

            “Okay…Never been to New York, should be nice to get to know the place.”

            “You’re comin’?” Mickey asked, still a touch of timidity in his voice Ian hadn’t thought to ever come from him.

            “Of course I’m coming.” Mickey smiled weakly, and Ian kissed him on the mouth. _Don’t plan on letting him get away ever again._


	34. MICKEY

_December_

            The rest of autumn had remained calm. The most unpleasantness had come from the chilling gusts of wind and the falling leaves dropping down in tiny piles onto the pavement. And Ian and Mickey had returned to the tiny domesticity they’d made for themselves, though there was a hollow howl through the walls of the apartment, something glum and distasteful, as though the beams that held it together were made of lost spirits floating desperately around, looking for somewhere to belong.

            But now winter had come, and the wind was more than chilling, and the leaves were all but absent from the naked trees lining the streets. Snow settled on every slip of bark and glittered the pavement white on the night of Christmas.

            A day, in which, they’d put aside some of their cautions and all gathered around at Ian’s house in order to enjoy the day together. Spent as most winter holidays, opening presents in the morning, eating dinner in the afternoon, still staying till evening for alcohol and familial comfort, and for the large extent of the evening, Ian’s presence had been strange, his aura mechanical, stiff, as though something was pulling at all of his muscles and he was trying to move them anyways. But Mickey had barely cared to notice.

            And while the sad Milkovich kid was doing his best to enjoy himself, there were still bits of him tattered from all that had happened in the last few months. Still shaken with the thought of Enzo killing his dad, and he, a completely different person, trying to lay low and fit into his disguise so much that he couldn’t even go to whatever service his family had held for his own father. And all of this didn’t sit well inside the quivering vibrations of his chest.

            It always seemed that Terry was just, there. He was always there, and now that he wasn’t…well, Mickey hadn’t really _ever_ been able to digest the fact that he would be dead one day. And so these last few months had been more of a shock to him than anything he’d ever felt.

            “Hey, Fiona and Debbie still have some more presents they wanna open, I mean, if you wanna come around and see,” Ian offered, peaking out onto the back steps where Mickey was sitting, taking in breaths of smoke and distancing himself from the yellow and colored lights of Christmas through a chattering happy family. He needed the break of silence.

            “Okay, I’ll be in in a minute.” He said gruffly and Ian went back inside.

             Mickey took a few more puffs of his cigarette and rammed it into the ground. He hated to say it, but there was no counter argument to the notion that he was harder than he’d ever been in his life now. Twisted and molded to something stronger than stone, like a soldier back from war. It was wry, in whatever expectation he could’ve held, he’d think to find Terry being dead would be a relief, that it would be some dark blessing. But it wasn’t. It was just the same old feeling of emptiness that always greeted the loss of a loved one, and Mickey had no idea how to handle it.

            He still had so much unfinished. And everything else seemed impeccably trivial. He may have finally gotten the money from Iggy, but now he knew his dad was dead. He now may have had Ian, but there still weren’t any words to describe the pain he’d caused. And he might’ve found Enzo, and all he’d done for him might’ve been unrepayable, but it still killed Mickey to know that he’d been relying on some sinister sociopath he thought he knew well enough to say he loved. And right now he couldn’t really give two shits about Christmas, or goddamn presents or anything.

            He stood, finally, from the stairs, took a moment to look at the eggshell moon in the sky and walked with unnecessary labor inside the house. Meeting all around the skinny tree, they’d set up in the corner of the living room, Debbie held Franny in her lap, and Carl handed the baby a tiny plush reindeer he’d gifted her, Franny taking the thing in her doughy hands and gnawing on one of its cotton antlers. They were laughing at her, but Mickey was existing on some exterior plane, outside looking in, and he could barely force a smile.

            “Hey, you alright?” Ian asked, Mickey nodded and almost whispered yep. Strange how things changed. There was still something bizarre he always felt seeing them together. Carl growing into a man. Debbie a mother. Fiona a fucking real estate investor. These weren’t the Gallaghers he’d remembered—and yet, they were.

            “Well, I have something for you,” Ian said, nervous, but still mechanical, and somewhere inside of him: proud.

             Mickey blinked lazily and nodded, waiting for whatever it was. And Ian pulled a little box wrapped in snowman wrapping paper from underneath the tree, slipping it into his hands. Everyone else was still in their own worlds, talking and laughing, Liam poking at Franny’s plump cheeks, fascinated with her baby skin.

            Mickey sighed and began to undo the wrapping paper, tearing at a triangular edge and ripping it across the top of the box. He threw the paper into the plastic trash bag they were using to discard every other bit of Christmas garbage and pulled back the top of the box. And then something in him jittered, and actually did smile, and Lip, who was sitting along the back of the couch behind him, asked, “Holy shit, are those real rocks?”

            And Ian answered for him, “Yes, yes they are,” and sat closer to Mickey, looking into his eyes. Mickey gave an amused half smile Ian’s way and went back to looking at the ring, black silver with tiny diamond studs all around it. _Know where that meth money went_ , he thought as the doorbell rang and Fiona obnoxiously announced she would go get it. “I know we couldn’t ever like, probably get married legally, but—”

            “Why not?” Mickey blurted, thinking softly. _Not to Mickey Milkovich but maybe to Nick Greer._  And then Fiona screamed.

            “You fucking cunt! You were the one that sent it, weren’t you! _WEREN’T YOU_!” Boomed a loud male voice coming through the front door. He pushed Fiona to the ground and began to pound at her, his fists so huge in comparison to her face, he made himself out bearlike.

            “Woah, Ryan, back the fuck up!” Lip screamed, and Mickey and Ian jumped up too, pushing and pulling him off, Lip and Ian started with their fists back at him, taking it outside and slamming the door shut behind them. Mickey and Carl helped Fiona onto the couch as she lost a hard battle between her and her tears.

            “Fuck,” he said, feeling at the side of her swelling face, “you gotta fucking first aid kit or somethin’?” Mickey asked to Carl. Carl left the room quick and dashed back with a plastic box. Her face was already a landscape of red. From the ruddiness of her tears, to her already puffy eye, one of her fingers had gotten caught between Ryan and the door and was plump, and bruised, and bleeding. Her lip was busted, and her nose spilled blood all the way down her chin. And between her being busted up, Franny wailing behind him and Debbie panicking with a frightened Liam, Mickey didn’t know what was going to overwhelm him first. “And like some fuckin’ ice, and a wet rag, something!” Carl left again, and Mickey did his best to calm her as he dabbed at her swollen eye that she began to open and uncrinkle from the hard sobs she was letting loose, only to reveal a deep red splash on her eyeball where there should’ve been white. “Jesus Christ, Fiona.”

            “Here.” Carl handed him a damp cloth and Mickey tried his best to wipe the blood from her face, as she still fought back drunk, scared tears. He handed her ice to hold on the side of her face as he wrapped her finger, still tying the bandage when Lip ran back inside.

            “Yo Mickey! There’s some fuckin’ Mexican guy outside trying to kill Ian, if you wanna know!” Mickey jolted up from the couch, cursed, and bolted outside to Enzo and Ian fighting out in the street.

            Chills ran up his spine when he saw that he had a gun. A twenty two no more, but he apparently could make good use to it, judging by the pistol whip Ian had already taken to the side of his head. Enzo was trying to force the barrel against his temple and Mickey jumped to his car and pulled his gun from the glove box, cocking it and pointing it at him.

            “Enzo!” He screamed, “I swear to God, I will fucking kill you myself if you don’t get your goddamn hands off of him!”

            “Just come with me, and I won’t have to hurt him, Mickey _._ ” _He’s fucking nuts, why’d I have to meet him, huh? Why me, why the fuck did I of all people…_ And Ian was under Enzo’s arm in a chokehold and Enzo was finally cocking the gun properly when Lip panicked and jumped in.

            “Get the fuck off my brother, asshole!” He ran towards Enzo recklessly, aiming to pull him off and, ripping Enzo away from Ian,  everyone from inside had already collected on the porch, and Mickey strayed from the distraction and kept his gun pointed Enzo’s way as he and Lip rolled along in the street.

            Though it happened so fast, any and all reaction time was caught somewhere in the air and he couldn’t reach it. Enzo was twisting Lip his way and pulling the trigger and blood was flying out from where the bullet shot through Lip’s stomach. And then sirens, loud, obnoxious, rang out after the pop of the bullet and Mickey, weak, near whimpering from all movement watched Enzo yank himself away and run off and like a phantom into the night.

            “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” Fiona’s voice was shrill as Mickey and Ian pulled Lip out of the street. He was gripping at his side and swearing, sitting onto the sidewalk once he was in the clear. Ian was trying to help him onto the porch and Lip shooed him away.

            “It’s okay, it’s okay, just leave me the fuck here. Did someone call a fucking ambulance?” Fiona was crying as she pulled out her phone.

            “Yes, yes, I’m calling, I’m calling now!” She dialed and Ian ordered Mickey to fetch something to cover it with until the paramedics got there.

             Mickey ran inside and grabbed the box of first aid, handing it to Ian. Ian pulled strings of white cotton bandages and folded it into a thick, wide square, pushing them hard on Lip’s wound. Lip hissed greatly and looked with pained lust at the ambulance as they pulled to the side of the road.

            “What happened?” The way Ian twisted his head hinted that he knew the voice of the woman crawling to the scene and Mickey gave a breath of discomfort and ownership. _This one’s all on me._

            “He—this guy, he shot him, we don’t know who the fuck he was, he ran off, we don’t know where he went.” Ian swallowed and wiped sweat from his forehead as he struggled to talk. “I’ve been keeping pressure on it, but he’s losing a lot of blood and his pulse is _really_ slow—but, lucky it didn’t exit, just a twenty two.” He helped the EMTs to pick him up, fitting him on the white and yellow stretcher, they carried him inside the ambulance, and left Ian standing and heaving out his breath.

            “Can I ride with him?” Fiona wept, her voice breaking half way through.

            “Yes, but that’s it, we only allow one family member.” Fiona nodded, and climbed inside and they rode off.

            “All right come on, I’ll drive and we can meet them at the hospital!” Mickey announced and threw the door open to his car, tossing the gun back inside the glove box, Ian sat in the front with him, and Carl, Liam, and Debbie—with Franny in her lap, crammed into the back. Debbie held the baby tight to her chest in the confined disadvantage of the lacking car seat and Mickey jammed the key inside the ignition, flipping it fast and tugging along the road. The night hadn’t ever been more maddeningly silent.

 

“What the fuck is taking them so long?”

            “It’s only been an hour Fiona, doctor said the surgery would take at least several.” Ian said, bored of her panic. “Calm down, okay, he’s going to be fine.”

            “I can’t help it, I can’t fucking help it.” She looked to Mickey with fierce scorn and banged a fist on his chest. “This is all you this is all you! You knew that guy, didn’t you? You said his name! You should’ve never come back, you piece of fucking shit!”

            “Fiona!”

            “I fucking hate you, all you’ve caused is trouble and shit and pain!” He knew it was all out of anger. She might’ve not meant all of it. But that didn’t make what she _did_ mean any less true.

            “Fiona stop!” Ian commanded. And she turned around to him, appalled.

            “What you’re going to defend his ass? I don’t give a fuck how _tight_ you two are, it’s because of him Lip might—might fucking DIE!”

            “Fiona, I said to fucking stop it! He’s not going to die! And the last thing we need is to be at each other’s throats, okay? Mickey didn’t pull out that gun and shoot him, and Lip didn’t have to jump in trying to play the fucking hero, alright? Shit fucking happens. Now Jesus, stop starting more fights, we need to be together now.” She started crying hard again, and fell into the waiting room chair, hands covering her eyes.

            Mickey kept his head down, and stared at his boots, feeling the truth to her words. Maybe it was just the depression of his loss that created the raw guilt flowing through his veins, but it was deep and strong, and he felt like he might collapse and so he said quickly that he was going outside for a smoke and almost ran out of the hospital.

            “Mickey! Mickey!” Ian shouted his way as Mickey ran out of the building. Ian tailed him and let out a fierce cloud of breath when they met out in the cold. “Mickey it’s gonna be okay.”

            “Ian, your sister’s fucking right,” Mickey insisted, “I shoulda never come back here. I just put you people in all kinds a fucking danger, I’m just bein’ a selfish asshole staying around you guys—I  gotta get outta here, I mean I _really_ gotta get outta here.”

            “Okay, we can leave sooner then. January,” he suggested.

            “No,” Mickey shook his head and turned around, “no, you’re fucking not. Not so I can have you end up in the hospital too. He coulda shot you, y’know? He could’ve fucking killed you if no one else was around.”

            “Mickey, don’t do this.”

            “Just, it’s okay Ian, alright? You did just fine without me before.” Ian sighed, pathetic and scared.

            “No, I didn’t. I went nuts, I started doing drugs—I almost _died_ without you—”

            “When you thought I was dead. You know I’m alive now. I’ll be in Manhattan, got a nice job, and you’ll know that I’m good.” Somewhere around Vaughn’s words were ringing through his head, saying he shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t push someone away; let them make their own decisions. And maybe letting him go was somehow more selfish. Maybe it was only caught in the mix of his own guilt moving him to keep his distance to maintain Ian’s wellbeing in his own definition of safety. But he couldn’t let Ian get hurt anymore, not him, and not his family.

            “No, shut up, I fucking, God, Mickey, why do you have to—” He couldn’t collect his thought so he kissed him, and Mickey poured into his embrace, holding him tight, pulling him close and keeping him warm. _Fuck, don’t ever forget this, don’t ever forget this_ , he told himself. “Will you at least stay with me right now? Don’t make me go back in there alone, please.” Mickey nodded and they walked inside, crossing the hospital floor back to the waiting room in the ER. The police were flowing down the halls, and when they picked up their steps and headed towards Mickey and Ian, the blood rushing to Mickey’s fingertips shot through his veins like bullets. _Fuck, fuck, they found me, see I should’ve never come back. This is it. This is the end._

             And then they pulled Ian’s hands together, cranked the cuffs around his wrists, and all Mickey’s internal ramblings ceased..

            “Ian Gallagher, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in—” The officer began, and Fiona shot from her seat, the rest of her siblings following after her.

            “Woah, woah, woah, what the fuck is going on!” she screamed.

            “—a court of law, you have a right to an attorney…”

            “What did he do?” Mickey demanded. “What did he do! He didn’t do anything! You can’t fucking do this!” They were already escorting him out of the hospital though, the squad of police pulling themselves out. But Fiona wasn’t about to let them go without an explanation, and Mickey, while shy of the officers, didn’t want to either.

            Yanking on a man’s sleeve, she pulled him close with a tight grip to his arm. “What’s his offence? Please, you at least gotta tell me why you’re arrestin’ him.” The cop sighed and jerked his arm out of her grip.

            “He’s under arrest for aiding and abetting a fugitive ma’am. We’ll tell you what the bail is set as, soon as we can.”


	35. IAN

            _Fuck, they have video,_ Ian repeated again and again in his mind. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Why the _fuck_ hadn’t he thought of that? He’d spent the hours he’d been at the police station replaying the security footage they’d shoved in front of him of he and Mickey inside the bank, cursing himself for not ever thinking they might find it. _Too distracted by Mickey’s presence to think they’d find me on any fucking camera._ And though his insides were quivering and he found himself shaking like a scared dog, he hadn’t said a word when the two interrogators played the video in front of him, showing him the close up on his face, records of him making a withdrawal in Texas. The entire thing was embarrassing.

            “Hello, Ian Gallagher” the lawyer spoke as she walked in, “thank you for not saying anything, makes things—a lot easier.” She was a bit tall for a woman, warm brown skin, and short hair cut into an angled bob, so straight and sharply edged it appeared the only thing that could have sliced it was a clean razor blade.

            “Yeah, I’m not that much of an idiot.” Ian willed his lips to smile but his mouth did not budge. And nervous, he warmed his elbows onto the table hotly. His last record had been expunged, and the feeling of living with a felony was grainy against his skin. He sighed with sweat rising at the top of his forehead, “So, what’s going on right now?”

            “Well,” she smacked her tongue to the roof of her mouth, “they’re filing some reports, processes. But their evidence is undeniable, Mr. Gallagher. And if this went to trial, the deliberation would barely last an hour, and no matter what story we try to play, romantic in love bandits, or weak manipulated victim of a convict’s shady antics, none of it will hold up well enough to get you your minimum sentence.” She stopped speaking here and breathed, “What I’m telling you, Mr. Gallagher, is that right now a guilty plea is your best possible option.”

            His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his skull. He should have expected nothing less; he certainly hadn’t planned on going to trial. But, he’d been quaking more with the fear of years of jail time than whatever he was going to plea. “Guilty?” She nodded. “Well, how—why would that be ‘in my best interest’ I mean, what about—” She interrupted him, and he was glad because his thoughts at the moment were all incomplete.

            “Look, this is your first felony charge and you have a rather stable life otherwise.” Tapping her pen to the edge of the table, she took another dramatic inhale, hinting at whatever depressing thing she was certain to spit out. “With that on our side, you should be able to get minimum sentencing, which is really my main goal.”

            “And-and what’s the minimum sentencing?” Ian asked desperately. Her face was hard as steel, and didn’t move a muscle out of place, but he could sense the news to be less than favorable.

            “The time on a class four felony is one to three years, or a fine up to twenty-five thousand dollars, but don’t worry about that. I’m looking to get your five years probation or less. Alright?” Ian immediately shook his head and swore.

            “No, no, no, I can’t do probation, I’m moving in a few months with my boyfriend. I wouldn’t be able to leave Illinois I can’t—”

            “Ian. This is more important right now. What you’ve committed is a _serious_ crime.” Tears were stinging his eyes and he swore at himself again. If only those condemning voices were there to see this. They’d really be cussing him out now. And he’d be joining them.

            “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

            “And we might be able to get a transfer, turn your probation officer over to the department in—where are you going?””

           “Uh, New York.” 

           “New York,” she said with a sharp nod. “Alright, alright,” she spoke soft, testing the information. “Mr. Gallagher, trust me, this scenario, you didn’t really hurt anyone, just a matter of you wanting to help someone you cared about. It’ll be difficult for them to convincingly demonize you in anyway, so just trust me that it’ll all work out fine, okay? Don’t worry.”

_Don’t worry_? Ian’s brain was burning with his heart, and his eyes felt an angry numbness. _Easy for you to say._ They do this all the time. This was huge to him, and he was blaming himself and anyone else he possibly could. After all, it was the most comfort he could give himself when there was not comfort to be given.

           And the first thought that came to mind was contemptuous and unrealistic, _This is all Mickey’s fucking fault,_ though it came with some bitterness that was not without admiration. After all, Mickey was the one that broke out of prison, and yeah, maybe he should’ve been angry at himself for making the decision to tag along, but he couldn’t. He could only think of Mickey, and how much he’d fucked him up. And the audacity he had to break up with him the same night Ian proposed.

           _Goddamn him._ He’d never loved anyone more, and now he had him back, only for him to rip himself away. And Ian wouldn’t stand by it. In front of the hospital, when he’d dismissed it and only asked for Mickey to go inside with him, he hadn’t planned on stopping there. He’d planned to fight, and cuss, and scream and beg him to not go without him, no matter how humiliating. It was only the fear of his brother’s life that had tied his tongue. But he wouldn’t let him go without him. He wouldn’t let him leave again. Not after everything. _I won’t let him leave again._

           And he didn’t regret it either when he dialed Mickey’s number into the phone he was only allowed to use once and pressed the call button. He had to speak to him. Now. For, some stressed, scared, and unfamiliar part of him needed to hear his voice in case it was the last time he heard it in a while. They didn’t have the money to bail him out—and he didn’t mind that, he’d only a few more days before he was released, with the provisions of house arrest, and his plea still wasn’t completely decided upon, so he knew not when his first _actual_ hearing would be—but Mickey was too closely tied to this, and he only wanted Mick to keep a distance until it was all sorted, and so he just needed to talk to him now, just one last time before shit got too heavy. _Just one last time._

            “Hey,” Mickey’s breath was hard on the phone, and the pained excitement in his throat was clear.

            “Hey.” Ian chuckled, sensing already Mickey’s annoyance. “How’s it feel being on the other end for once?” He laughed again, though the other side of the phone was full of cold silence and then a stressed:

            “Ian…”

            “Yeah, yeah, I guess that was sorta stupid…but um…guess I’ll just tell you what you wanna know.” Ian swallowed a knot of sadness in his throat and spoke, “I talked to a lawyer, they have me on video at a,” he turned to see two officers conversing at the end of the hall and reminded himself to lie, “bank in Texas, with well, you don’t know him.” He looked back again with a paranoid chill on his spine and sighed. “But, yeah, she said the sentence runs about one to three years, or a fine of twenty five thousand dollars—like I got money to pay for that.” Mickey’s inhale came scratchy over the phone.

            “Figured it’d be somethin’ like that,” he muttered. Ian wasn’t sure if it was meant to be under his breath or not, but the words came out soft. “Jesus, Ian, goddammit.” Mickey groaned and then spoke fast and desperate, “What if we could somehow get the money? That ring you gave me, how much is it worth?” Ian snickered.

            “Not twenty five thousand dollars, Mi-Nick. Just, it is what it is, she said I might be able to get it down to a few years probation if I plead guilty and—” Something hit him. He didn’t know if it was the high numerical value of the crime, or the weight of fear that had wiped away those twinkling drops of slight amnesia after that car wreck, but the realization hit him like a warm, pleasurable fire. “No, no, actually, yeah, I can pay it!”

            Mickey huffed and shouted with impatience, “How!”

            “The-the, uuugghh, just go to my house, go to my house and look in the closet right by the stairs, the shelf, on the top left corner, you have to see it, you have to get it!” He was nearly weeping with some excited, hopeful relief. “Please, go, go now, it’s gotta be worth at least—“ he tried to subtract the amount that had been snorted off of tables and mirrors –“at least fifty-K. You gotta go, now, alright?”

            “Alright, alright!” Mickey allowed, startled by Ian’s hard insistence.

            His voice grew very low after this and Ian spoke with sentiment, “…I love you.”

            “Yeah,” Mickey said, “I love you too.”

            “And you aren’t going to New York without me.”

            “Ian…”

            “No, you don’t get to push me away like that. Not after everything we’ve _fucking_ been through. You did time for me, and I’m losing a shit ton of money because of all this—fuck, probably won’t be off the hook all the way, anyway. So no, not after everything we’ve done for each other. You don’t get to just walk away.”

            Silence and then,“Okay.” 

            “Now go get it! Top shelf, left corner, first closet you see in the living room!” he reiterated. “Go!”

            And with that Ian hung up the phone, abated his hyperventilation, crossed his fingers, and prayed.  



	36. MICKEY

            Mickey flew to Ian’s house after the phone call. Pulling on the door, cursing that it was locked. He banged on it three times with a heavy fist and clouds of his breath beat out in perfect white puffs. _Jesus someone open the fucking door._ He didn’t know what was waiting for him in that closet, but he was sure that it wasn’t legal, and the entire drive over he’d been cussing at himself and at Ian.

            “Hey,” Carl said when he opened the door, but Mickey barely heard him as he dashed inside, eyes scanning the room with mechanical speed, he locked his eyes on the closet, walked over to it roughly, and yanked open the door, reaching for  the top corner where Ian said to look. He thumped his hand around for a worthy second before he finally touched what he could only assume to be what Ian was talking about. When he took it down, his eyes bulged, his breath slowed and Carl cursed. “Where the fuck did that come from?” Mickey shrugged.

            “I don’t…fuckin’ know.” But it was two heavy blocks of coke no less, two, nice, heavy blocks of coke. And it was definitely worth enough to cut Ian’s sentencing down to something absolutely trivial. Only thing was, Mickey didn’t know how the hell to sell it. Not this much. Not in this quantity. And if he didn’t, he knew Iggy wouldn’t either. After all, this wasn’t meth, or heroin, or some other gross street drug. This was the sort of shit rich people rubbed off their pinky rings. People like Vaughn.

           And then he opened his phone and dialed. “Hi,” Mickey said to him, “think I need your help with somethin’.” He would get it now, no questions asked, but he was certainly curious of its explanation.

 

“What is it?” Vaughn spoke, impatient when Mickey ran in his office. Mickey slammed down the bag he’d carried the coke in onto the table near his desk and Vaughn followed, Mickey opening the zipper with slow precision. Vaughn yelled at him with absurd anger, “Christ, the fuck is wrong with you bringing this into my office?”

            “I need you to sell it for me. Or fuck—somethin’, soon. I don’t got anyone that can. Don’t know anyone that can fucking afford this shit! But I thought you might. I need the money soon.” It was almost all one sentence and Vaughn laughed in some arrogant amusement.

            “Okay,” he said. “Back the fuck up, kid. You need me to sell your two pounds of coke because you need the money?”

            “No, listen, it ain’t like that. It’s my boyfriend’s and he just got arrested. He needs me to—”

            “Help him pay his way out of it? Cash this in before he’s out on house arrest and has everyone and their brother watching him?’

            “Okay, you get, then. Can ya help me?” Vaughn sighed and started to light a cigarette, puffing once and shaking his head.

            “This is a bad idea.” Mickey looked around the room in a jittery fluster.

            “ _Hhhaaoow_? Fuck, dude, I just need you to get rid of it and hand me the cash and I’m gone.”

            “And what?” He asked, leaning on the edge of the table, one hand holding his cigarette, and the other inside his pocket. “You hand them what that’s gotta be a nice forty-five K, you just got out of nowhere? Give them all that in cash, because that won’t look at all fucking suspicious!” Mickey squirmed. _Hadn’t thought a that._ But still, suspicious or no, he needed the money.

            “Well, I don’t want him to be on probation for the next five six years or end up doin’ time. He won’t last in prison.” Vaughn laughed.

            “Makes ya say that?”

            “Trust me, he won’t. Can you do something, please?” Vaughn tapped ash into the ashtray sitting on the table and laboriously nodded.

            “I’ll pay his fine. But you’ll get rid of this yourself when you start working and get the money back to me.” Another drag on his cigarette, and smoke so strong it nearly hit Mickey in the face, “I think that’s fair enough.” Mickey nodded.

            “Yeah, sure, whatever, thanks I just needed–”Vaughn slapped a hand on his shoulder.

            “Slow down, alright. It’s gonna be okay, kid.” Mickey swallowed, and nodded again. And felt, for some reason, in his heart that it might actually be true this time.

 

“Just a month,” Mickey said to Fiona, walking down the halls of the prison.

            He spoke so simply but he still was tied in ropes of nerves. Selfishly wishing it was Lip who’d he’d gone with to visit him and not Fiona. She still held twinges of resentment that he couldn’t really blame her for, but there were some improvements he tried his best to be grateful for. Now, they were talking. Being civil. Treating each other like human beings and not like an annoying raccoon creeping into the garbage at night. And sad to say, this was an improvement all on its own.

            “I was only in jail for a few days and I was scared shitless,” she pointed out. Mickey nodded.

            “Why’d he take the damn jail time, again?” He groaned and cracked his neck. The money, he knew, had cut it all down, but he hadn’t much more knowledge of anything else. He’d shied away for the rest of his case, scared for his own legal safety, and though he was on Ian’s visitation list, he planned this to be the only time he’d see him in person. The rest he’d keep to phone calls. _It’s just thirty days._

            And Fiona sighed to explain it to him again,“It was either a month in prison and a year of probation or six years bound to Illinois, what’d you expect he’d pick? He already got his transfer into a officer in New York, if it makes ya feel special.” When she’d found out about New York she’d held a tighter grudge than ever before. Some part of her clearly showing that she felt as though he was tearing her little brother away. But Mickey said nothing on this and kept walking.

           And she was quiet for a moment, and then she came to speak again, subtle, soft, and hesitant, remorse of her tone twisted in her apology, “I’m sorry for the what I said in the hospital. I was really pissed—and scared—for Lip. I can’t thank you enough, for payin’ him through this.”

            Mickey shrugged and bit his lip. “Wasn’t me. Was my boss.”

            “Yeah, well, you got him to,” she said fast, annoyed with his refusal to her thanks, “So, thanks.”

            They walked in together and handed their phones to the guards, letting themselves get searched, and scanned. Mickey kept his head down the entire time in stark paranoia. And they crossed the visiting stations to Ian’s spot and said hi. He was evidently glad to see them. And Mickey wasn’t at all digging the role reversal.

            Fiona talked to him first. Speaking with pitiful happiness, she told him that Lip was finally home, he was doing okay, he’d need probably a year of physical therapy, but he’d definitely make a full recovery. She said that Debbie would probably come in a week, but Carl was taking care of Lip until Winter Break was over and Lip was in no condition to come. And then she was done, and she passed the phone Mickey’s way and traded seats.

            “Hey,” Ian talked first and Mickey said the same. “Fuck, Mickey, how’d you do this for a year?” Mickey smiled at first and then tensed with uneasiness.

            “Nick, remember?” Ian nodded and apologized.

            “Do you still have the ring?” Mickey said yeah and looked to the silver studded band on his left ring finger. “Good.” He was beaming. “It’s just thirty days, and a few months house arrest, but…the day I I’m free is a few weeks before you have to leave so, I can still come with you—I mean, even if I couldn’t, I’d go when I could, I just—I’m gonna miss you.” Mickey was trying to wipe the smile off his face but he couldn’t.

            “Gonna miss ya too, man.” He pressed his right thumb to the bottom of the window and Ian smiled big. Clearly proud for taking one of the rarest opportunities to throw Mickey’s words back in his face.

            “Get your hand off the glass.” And they laughed, and then the buzzer rang, and they walked away from each other for the last time.


	37. EPILOGUE

            The morning was wet with Spring rain and Mickey stepped out of his car with a large breath and a loaded gun, still sure of its weight, he picked it from behind his waistband and checked the magazine in some compulsive measure to see that it was full. And clicking it back in, re-tucking it inside the back of his jeans, he made his way to the little spot under the L, where Enzo sat, with a beard and tousled black hair, falling into his scruffy cheeks greasy and wet.

            “What do you want?” Mickey asked.

             When he’d woken up to the text from an unknown number saying only “meet me under the train tracks,” he could only assume it to be Enzo. And now it was that he found he was in fact right. And Enzo grinned, pushed himself off the ground, and stood with a smug smile, as he sipped lazily on a bottle of amber liquor. No doubt that he was tipsy, and worn, but most of him was depressed, and there was no reading between the lines on that one. And Mickey almost felt sorry for him.

            He looked nothing like himself. He _looked_ like some greasy homeless man, and not at all the suave, Latin boy he’d met in Manzanillo, and hell, not even the psychotic, delusional sociopath he’d learned him to be either. He looked lost. Depressed. And, finally it seemed he was dealing with the loss of the one person who seemed to have kept him grounded. And Mickey had his own situation with Marcello for wrecking Enzo to the point of his own destructive madness.

            “I—“ He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. And Mickey, nervous and questioning why he came swallowed hard and spoke quickly.

            “I’m not going with you to Bosnia.”

            Enzo smiled and nodded, and tapped his fingers to the cold glass bottle he held. “I know.”

            “Then what the hell do you want?”

            He sighed, “Mickey, I cannot do this anymore.”

            Mickey twisted his head back with confusion, “Do what?”

            “Live.” He shook his head at the ground and looked back up to him, “But, I don’t think I can do it on my own—and if anyone would want to kill me, it would be you, _sim_? You must. I tried to kill Ian—I almost killed his brother. People you love. And _caralho_ , Mickey, sometimes I thought about killing you.” The weight of that sat in the air for a second before he inhaled to speak again, “So, please, take your gun—I know you would not see me unarmed—and just…do it…I do not have Marcello…and so I have nothing.” He wept in the most pathetic voice Mickey had ever heard from him, “Please. Just do it.”

            Mickey stood still in shock, thanking the cold for the excuse it gave to his stark, blanched skin.

            He wanted to.

            If Enzo hadn’t drawn so much fucking attention Ian wouldn’t have gone to jail, and Lip would’ve never been shot, and if he hadn’t pulled so hard at his vulnerable heartstrings in Mexico, he could’ve avoided this all together.

            And he definitely owed it to him. After all Enzo had done, and all Enzo had sacrificed to get him back to Chicago. All he’d asked for in return was for him to go to Bosnia, and now, to kill him. And while he would have never gone with him to Bosnia, he could do this. And all the guilt of his indebted obligation, and all the guilt of his interference with Enzo and all it’d led Enzo to do and almost do…It was terrible and weighed too heavy on his back. So heavy, sometimes he feared it might knock him over, and so, he couldn’t do this too. Because he’d definitely be on the ground  and his compunction would ruin the last, little sliver of him that held some sort of dignity.

            “No.” Mickey took the gun, shocked away all other bullets and left one, one in case Enzo _did_ decide to do anything reckless with the weapon, and shoved the rest inside his pocket before he threw the thing onto the rocks. “I ain’t got it in me to kill you. I don’t fucking do that. I already hate myself enough for the shit I’ve done, and you’re the one that likes to murder people.” Mickey took a deep, brave breath and spit into the rocks before he made his first step to leave. “If you wanna do it, do it your fuckin’ self.”

            He left after that. Walking with only the tap of his boots into the rocks and over the damp, muddy ground back to the lip of the road, the air was silent and when he went back to his car this time, it wasn’t his car. It was Enzo’s, and as he opened the door to it, stuck the key inside the ignition and flipped it to start the motor, all in the same moment he heard a crack of gunfire in the distance, and jerked. And it was not only Enzo that died that day, but still, a tiny crack of him that felt both evil, and a larger part of him that felt pure.

            But he didn’t focus on either thing he’d lost as he drove away from his body. He instead thought of what he’d gained. Yes, he would listen on the radio a few days later to a reporter talking about wanted serial killer, Vincenzo Galdo, found dead in Chicago, and his head would stir for a moment and he’d feel taps of remorse on his shoulder, but eventually this would all fade away. And what he’d be left with was a blessing.

            Because a part of him did need Enzo. To help him. To help him get back to Ian. And he couldn’t thank him enough for that. Because though he was a Milkovich, and so, the greatest thing he could rise to was to be the King of Rats, he couldn’t help but remind himself that the King of Rats was still a king. And Enzo had coronated him. And for this he could only say _thank you_ and move on untouched.

  

“Alright, that’s the last of it.” Ian said as he shoved the final suitcase in the trunk. They’d hired movers to take all that was in the apartment, and so the only things they’d packed inside their car was their luggage, which was heavy and full, and concerning as to whether or not the airline would allow some of the bags’ weight.

            “Alright.” Mickey slammed the trunk door shut and leaned on the car. “Boarding starts in like an hour,” he reminded and tossed his hand through the air. Ian nodded and Fiona smiled wide, though tears were in her eyes. Lip was standing right next to her, gripping his side as he so often did these days.

            “Come here.” Fiona took Ian in her arms and little teardrops fell into the collar of his shirt like warm rain and she snorted them away. “I’m gonna miss you so much,” she cried. “You better fucking call me.” Ian smiled and said he would, squeezing her back and then letting her go. He brought in Lip for a hug as well, cautiously, for though he was healing very well, pain still came easily in that spot. He hugged Liam and picked him up and swung him around, and hugged and ruffled Carl’s hair, before he squeezed Debbie and bopped Franny on the nose.

            “Okay you, guys we gotta get going, I’ll call you when I get there, and don’t worry, I’ll be back from time to time to visit. This won’t be the last time we ever see each other.” Ian opened the door and fell into the passenger’s seat, and before Mickey could bounce himself where he’d been leaning on the car, Fiona yanked on his bicep and pulled him in.

            “Thank you,” she whispered, “know I’ve said some shitty stuff to you, but fuck, you make him so fuckin’ happy. So thank you, I know you’ll take good care of him, Mickey.” She let go and Mickey nodded, shied by her emotion, he said a simple, “yeah” and walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Not thinking about the home he’d leave behind.

             He looked to Ian with a nervous smile that quaked on excited and scared, and unbelievably sad. But he didn’t let any of this get to him and started the car up.

             Spring light was hitting the highlights of his face, and straight through his freshly cut and dyed hair. He’d gone a bit darker this time around and was much happier with it. “You ready?”

            Ian smirked and sighed deeply, and there was nothing in the world that could be more beautiful, because they were together, and Mickey knew that wasn’t going to change, and the band Ian had gotten, complimentary to Mickey’s that wrapped around his finger was gleaming and pressing a reflective dot on the interior leather. Yes, things were finally looking up, nothing was attacking them anymore, nothing was hurting them, and all phantoms of the past they were finally leaving behind.

            And Ian, smirk still softly on his face, not cocky, and not shy either, stayed only for another moment and then he looked to Mickey with the most sure, direct, and loving twinkle in his eye and spoke with utter conviction.

            “Let’s ride.”

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must start off by saying thank you. For you encouragement and your kind words. Thank you to everyone who has stayed with this story from the beginning. The following has been more than I ever expected, and I am a bit shy to say how much this story has meant to me. It's kept me grounded through tough times, and I have thoroughly enjoyed writing it, and am a bit sad to say it's over. But, in the words of Dr. Seuss, "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." And I must thank you all, because this journey has made me smile very much. :) 
> 
> Love, VampiricVampire


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